


Worlds Apart: Or the Un-becoming of Derek Hale

by TaraSoleil



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A bit of torture, Assumptions, Bad Relationship Trauma, Bisexual Derek Hale, Captain Stiles Stilinski, Captain!Stiles, Comfort, Damaged Derek Hale, Developing Relationship, Fire but No Deaths, Grumpy Derek, Guilt, Imagine-Sterek, Kidnapping, M/M, Masturbation (though not much), Modern AU, Non-Supernatural AU, Party Planner Stiles, Pining, Prequel to Tumblr Posts, Prince Derek, Self-Loathing, Soft Caramel Centers, Stiles is just Stiles, Underaged...But not really..., adopted pets, fur babies, lovely lovely angst, prince!derek, royal au, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-05-24 22:33:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 70,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14963450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraSoleil/pseuds/TaraSoleil
Summary: Seven years after his first romance went up in flames, quite literally, Prince Derek Hale is still actively avoiding life, responsibilities, and especially love. That is until a snarky boy in plaid steps in to help plan the country's bicentennial celebrations. Despite his social class, presumed age, and complete lack of respect for Derek's station, he falls for the kid.Stiles, though, has a few secrets of his own.





	1. An Officer and a Gentleman

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Imagine-Sterek](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/389723) by Anonymous/Imagine-Sterek. 



> This story is something of a prequel to the delightful and slightly heart-melting Prince!Derek/Captain!Stiles imaginings (with a heavy dash of Prince!Derek/Party Planner!Stiles) over at the fabulous [Imagine-Sterek Tumblr](http://imagine-sterek.tumblr.com/). Go check it out.

He counted as he walked. He didn’t count the number of steps it took him to travel the length of the corridor, the crystal chandeliers overhead, or the panes of clear glass in the towering windows. He counted the portraits that hung along that corridor, between those windows. Nine. That was the number of monarchs looking down at him from their ornate gold-leaf frames, their faces stern but not unkind, their shoulders heavy with a burden that he, thankfully, would never know. He studied the face of his grandfather, King Derek. They shared the same color eyes, the strong cut of their jaw, and their name, but, from what he was told of the man, that was all they shared. The late king was a man who loved, deeply, passionately. He loved his country. He loved his family. He loved to fight, to drink, to play cards. There was nothing he did that he didn’t do with his whole self. Derek wasn’t like that. He couldn’t afford to be. 

Beside King Derek hung a portrait of the current ruler, Queen Talia, his mother. While she didn’t share her father’s love of fighting or gambling, she did live with the same passion, or so it seemed to Derek. Their country was always her passion, but right now she had focused that intensity on the two hundredth anniversary of both its independence from Spain and their family’s rule. 

“Derek!” 

He bit back a sigh, keeping his face arranged in a look of careful indifference that bordered on the stony. It was his default mask for dealing with essentially everything. He had grown up in the public eye; the televising of the royal coronations and weddings in England set precedence for even their tiny sovereignty. He had learned to walk with telephoto lenses trained on his tiny sneakers, spoken his first gurgling words into a reporter’s microphone, started school under a seizure-inducing number of flash bulbs. Rather than get angry and lash out, he just pretended it didn’t bother him. In truth, he hated every minute of it. He was certain that of his family, he was least suited to the royal life. No, actually, that title likely fell to Cora. He was a distant second in that particular race. His younger sister was still well within her rebellious teenage years and seemingly unable to contain her eye rolls and ‘this is duller than dirt’ glares. Really, she couldn’t contain any glare, regardless of what it was communicating. Derek wasn’t much better, but he refused to admit it.

“Derek!” 

Much as he wanted to turn and flee, he forced himself to move toward his sister’s voice. Heaven help the man who failed to comply when Laura Hale called. Heir apparent or not, she was never one to be ignored. He found her amid the buzz of the planning committee, delegating like the queen she would become.

“What did mother tell you about neglecting our duties in arranging the bicentennial?” she demanded.

He offered a smile. “I don’t know. What did mother say about wailing like a banshee?”

“Cute.” She waved the committee away, eyes focused solely on him as they scattered at that slight gesture. “This is important, Derek. The whole world will be watching.”

“I somehow doubt that. We’re barely the size of a postage stamp on the grand map of the world. One good celebrity feud in America and our big commemoration will be forgotten.”

“Derek!” she hissed, slapping him on the head and glancing around to make sure none of her peons noticed. They were all too preoccupied with their decoration schemes or seating charts to see anything. “I need you to stop being so blasé. Father is dealing with the Middle East situation, Mother’s negotiating entry into the Eurozone, which leaves the largest public event of all our generations up to me to arrange. I cannot do this by myself. You have to do your part.”

“I know,” he muttered and dropped his eyes. No matter how old they got, he always felt like a snot-nosed child with mud on his shoes and frogs in his pockets when dealing with Laura. He had never gotten to be that child. Circumstances prevented it. “What do you need me to do?”

She sighed, seemingly in relief at his compliance, and gestured him over to the table where the battle plans were being drawn. “Our planners are swamped.”

“You’re telling me there’s something Natalie Martin can’t handle?”

“I wish we had Natalie,” Laura said. “She’s on sabbatical. I don’t think she could have picked a worse time.”

“Sabbatical?” Derek repeated. “She can’t take a sabbatical from the company she runs.”

“You want to be the one to tell her that?”

He looked up from the maps and charts covering the table to the person who had spoken. It was a teenager-- a boy, really-- with hair a bit too short and brown eyes that suddenly filled with nervous uncertainty as they darted between the two royal siblings. He clearly had not considered the audience when opening his mouth. 

“And you are?” 

“Stilinski,” Laura answered for the kid. “Don’t even bother with the first name.”

“Stiles,” the boy said. His hand moved awkwardly as if he couldn’t decide whether to offer it in a handshake or a salute, which left it hovering somewhere in between. At least he didn’t curtsey, though it was probably a close call.

Derek nodded his head in greeting, trying to move his eyes off the boy who seemed beyond out of place in the palace. It wasn’t solely his manner, which was casual to the point of inappropriate. It was the way he dressed. The tone of his voice, which held a level of sarcasm he had only ever heard from his immediate family in very private quarters. Everything about this kid screamed ‘I don’t belong here’. Maybe that’s why Derek had such a hard time looking away. 

“Natalie’s daughter, Lydia, sent Stiles with her suggestions. Lydia single-handedly organized Cora’s eighteenth birthday celebration, so I think she has some idea what she’s doing. Plus she was smart enough not to risk sending anything electronically,” Laura explained, offering the boy a warm smile as if the praises she was singing somehow affected him personally.

“How exactly do you know the Martins?” Derek questioned. Natalie was a force of nature, bold and determined. Her daughter, from what he had witnessed, was even more so; she took her mother’s small party planning company and turned it into the premier event organizer in the country -- in all of Europe once Talia became a client. Either of the Martins had assistants for their assistants, and all of them were statuesque women in lethal heels and perfect lip gloss. There was no way, as far as Derek could see, that this Stiles in his plaid shirt and too-baggy pants could possibly fit into that well-groomed, high-end world.

“She was at school with me. Lydia, I mean. Obviously,” Stiles said in a bit of stammer. “Her boyfriend used to kick my ass on a regular basis for trying to hang out with her, but that didn’t stop me. She knows I won’t let her down.”

“How gallant,” Laura said, always the diplomat; Derek would have said ‘how pathetic’.

“That’s me, an officer and a gentleman,” the boy smiled and gave a surprisingly precise salute. 

“The plans?” 

He set a laptop down on the table and typed in an excessively long password before turning the screen around to face them. “So, Lydia was thinking that the best way to approach this thing is weekends of celebrations across the entire month. That way we can throw in all the cultural events on your lists without spreading police presence too thin. Other choice would be a reduced number of events, which wouldn’t really hit the big celebration mark you’re going for. Obviously, independence is a big deal. Two hundred years of it, even more big a deal. Two hundred years without a civil war or beheading a monarch -- now that’s definitely something to celebrate.” He went on, seemingly oblivious to the stares he was getting as he showed what Martin & Martin had devised, adding his side comments as if he were addressing friends and not the future ruler of his country.

“Thoughts? Questions? Comments?” 

“I have plenty of each,” Derek muttered, getting an elbow in the ribs for it. 

“It all seems very well thought out. We are going to need to examine the details a bit more closely and discuss logistics with the mayor and minister of the treasury before we can officially agree to anything,” his sister said, glancing at her watch. “I have to meet with the crowd control specialists in two minutes. Derek will have you go over it all again privately, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“No, that’s cool,” the kid said, looking between them with a bewildered and delighted smile. Derek wondered what it must be like to be able to show so much emotion to everyone all the time, to not have to hide anything. Didn’t the kid worry about what people would think?

He stood looking at Stiles for what was probably too long. 

“Derek,” Laura prompted, gesturing for him to take Stiles away. 

“Of course,” he said, offering a neutral smile and leading the way.

Stiles fell into step beside him, easily keeping pace as he moved away from the growing noise of the planning committee. He thought it all breath wasted considering no official plan had yet been agreed to. Why spend time discussing crowd control on parade routes that hadn’t even been lain down? On concerts and cultural events not yet scheduled? 

“So who are all those people?” Stiles asked, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. 

“Planning committee.”

The boy nodded his understanding, a frown growing on his face until he spoke again. “What for?”

“For the bicentennial,” Derek said, unable to keep the condescension out of his voice. The kid had just spent twenty-five minutes babbling about Lydia’s plans, and he was asking a question that stupid.

“I get that,” he replied with equal sarcasm. “But what’s there for a committee to talk about? She -- your sister -- said the plans weren’t approved yet.”

He glanced at the boy, his own frown deepening. “That’s what I was wondering, too.”

“Great minds.” Stiles said with a smile and held his hand aloft for a high five that was never given.

“You’re weird.” He realized that the thought had actually come out of his mouth. His sister would have slapped him if she had heard. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

The boy shrugged. “I have been called much worse things, generally with a fist coming at my face. Don’t even worry about it.” As he voiced his reassurances, Stiles did the unthinkable; he reached out and patted Derek’s shoulder. 

He followed the motion, his eyes staring at the hand that was touching him. Strangers did not touch Derek Hale. Strangers were wrestled to the ground by muscular men in black suits and sidearms when they so much as approached Derek Hale without an appointment and prior approval. That hand shouldn’t be allowed. 

“All right. Moving my hand now,” Stiles assured him in a deliberately calm voice. “You have a very impressive death glare. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

“Cora. Every day since she was eight,” Derek replied, still feeling the weight of that hand on his arm, the warmth of it.

“So, the plans?”

“Yes, let’s go through them again,” Derek agreed. “Without the sidebar comments this time. Think you can manage that?”

“Hope springs eternal, right, dude?”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“As you wish, your royal grumpiness.”

Derek bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. This kid hadn’t earned a real smile. Not yet. Probably not ever. Just being unorthodox did not grant him access to know what was really going on inside his head. There were porters and pages working in the palace for two years who still thought he was an emotionally stunted mute. Stiles was no different.


	2. Soft Caramel Center

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles uncovers a prince's soft caramel center.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I've been working on this, I've also been making a sort of/kind of/not really playlist of YouTube videos without _actually_ making a playlist. Track 1: "[Daniel James - A Lonely Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iCiGkwE66U8). More to come. 
> 
> If you can think of any songs as the story moves along, please share! :)

Chapter 2: Soft Caramel Center

The sleek aerodynamic machine took the corner at 120 kilometers per hour, skidding sideways across the asphalt, bands of black rubber and smoke marking its path. As soon as he hit the apex, Derek short shifted and hit the gas, gunning it to 300 before the nearest racer was even within sight of the corner. He sped down the straight, slalomed around the cars too slow to keep up with the rest of the pack, lapping them with a smile and flying past the checkered flags.

“We’ve won!” Coach shouted into the radio. As if he needed reminding. As if this was some rare event.

He pulled into the pits, taking a moment to calm his heart and school his face. It wouldn’t be polite to climb from the car looking overly pleased with himself; his father had told him that when he learned his eight-year-old son had started racing his bicycle on the palace grounds and caught him crowing his own victories as any proud child would. It didn’t do to sing one’s own praises. Better to be seen as humble, his father had insisted. So Derek shook hands with his teammates and crew, thanking them for their hard work and help, then he did the same with his competitors in the nearby pits, always nodding with graceful acceptance when they congratulated him. It was maddening, but it was necessary.

The trophies were awarded and champagne showered over the three men on the stacked steps of the victory podium. Derek stood above the others, a politic smile on his face and a deep dissatisfaction in his heart. When the microphones were shoved in his direction, he never mentioned himself or his skills, only his team, their dedication and comradery.

“Ever the fucking politician,” Coach commented.

“Something like that,” Derek had to agree.

“There’s a party,” the man informed him.

“By Versace, I heard.”

“And you can’t make it. As usual. I’ll make your lame-ass excuses.”

He watched the older man go. He had been a racer himself some fifteen years ago. Brash and confident, he had crashed onto the racing scene, a whirlwind of talent and foul language, shattering any and every established record. Everyone had hated him; he was too arrogant, they had said, but no one could prove his claims wrong. So he kept on boasting. Derek wanted to be like that. Because he, too, was that good. No one could beat him. He drove slower off the start just to have a bit more competition, took turns recklessly hoping to spin out and have to work to catch up with the pack. Still he won. Still he couldn’t say it was because he was talented.

He didn’t bother showering. Faron and the palace were just across the border; he would be home inside three hours. He threw his logo-laden suit off, changed into his own clothes, and met his chauffeur.

After the adrenaline rush of racing, the slow drive in a stately black sedan was enough to put him to sleep. He dozed in the backseat, dreaming of a life where he was unashamedly himself, where, when the microphones were pressed into his sweaty face after a win, he could tell the reporters how hard he and his team had worked, how he had raced well, how he had won. He dreamed that an arm would wrap around his shoulder in congratulations, an arm clothed in plaid. In his dream, he could smile at the boy hugging him, he could laugh with him and not care what people thought.

“Sir.”

Derek sighed and opened his eyes. The driver was watching him. Derek said nothing. He just got out of the car and made his way into the palace.

“You smell,” Cora commented as he passed. “But you raced well.”

The reply came like a reflex. “I have a good team.”

He didn’t look back to see her reaction, just continued on to his rooms. He stood in the shower for over an hour, washing away the sweat, smoke, and frustration. It wasn’t what he wanted to be doing after a race, but there were other duties to attend to. If those duties were neglected, he knew the team would be disbanded. He refused to lose the only place that he could be himself, buckled inside that cockpit at over 300 kilometers per hour.

The sound of his phone drew him from the shower.

“Took you long enough,” Cora complained.

“What do you want?”

He could practically hear his sister sticking her tongue out at him. “Your meeting starts in five minutes. If you’re not here, I have to deal with it. I am not a party planner, so get dressed and get out here.”

“What meeting?” he questioned.

His secretary knew better than to schedule appointments on Sundays. More than just seeming sacrilegious to work on a day of rest in their deeply Catholic nation, there was a very real chance he could miss the meeting; his race could run long; he could finally lose and greet guests in a foul mood; he could crash and wind up in the hospital. Even he knew better than to miss a diplomatic meeting for something as selfish as a broken leg.

“That Stilkinki is here to talk more about the bicentennial.” Through the phone he could hear another voice and Cora muttering a reply before she was correcting herself. “Stilinski.”

“Stilinski?” he questioned, genuinely lost as to who that was.

“Here,” the girl huffed and there was another voice in his ear, a voice he knew well despite only hearing it once a week ago. “Hi, yeah, it’s Stiles. Your sister -- your other sister -- sent a note that I was supposed to be here today. Said you wouldn’t be able to get out of it because you never make plans on race days. Other than, you know, the racing. I’m sure you make those plans.”

Derek managed not to say a very inappropriate word in reply. Barely. “Fine, I’ll be out in a minute.”

“I could just come in.”

“You don’t know where I am,” he pointed out.

As soon as the words left his mouth, he heard the rapping on his door.

“Knock knock.” The kid’s words came through the speaker of his phone like an echo to the voice coming muffled through the wood. Stiles was outside his door. They had met just the once. Cora had never met him at all before today, yet she was leading him through the palace to their private wing, to his personal quarters.

“Please inform my little sister that I have very real plans to kill her.’

He heard Stiles say “Derek says ‘thank you’”.

Before he could even set the phone down, a fist started pounding on the door. The repetitive pattern of three fast, impatient blows told him it was Cora doing the knocking. The girl had a temper. If he didn’t open the door, she would start shouting, and her voice would carry. The house was old, walls made of plaster and floors of polished marble and hardwood. None of it helped deaden noise. If anything it made the perfect soundboard, amplifying and resonating sounds. There was a reason everyone called it Echo House. There was a reason so few secrets were kept that way. If Cora started shouting, the noise would travel all the way to their mother’s ear, and both he and his sister would be subjected to a lecture on appropriate behavior around guests. Nothing was worth that, not even a modicum of decency.

“God, put something on!” the girl cried, covering her eyes and pointing her face away before she saw more of him than was healthy.

“You knew I was in the shower. What did you expect me to have on? A three-piece suit?”

“No, but pants are socially acceptable.”

“Could be worse,” Stiles chimed in. “There could have been no towel at all.”

“Ah! Mental picture forming. Do not want it!” She spun and ran down the hall leaving Stiles alone with Derek.

He wasn’t usually one to care much about how naked he was. Far from an exhibitionist, he just didn’t see the problem in not wearing a shirt, especially when fresh from the bath. Standing awkwardly opposite Stiles, however, he was hyper-aware of just how naked he really was. Maybe it was the two layers of shirts the boy had on or the flush of pink in his pale cheeks, but Derek felt weirdly self-conscious.

“Should I go?” the kid asked. “I should go.”

“Come in. I’ll never hear the end of it if I scare you away.” He left the door open for Stiles to show himself in while he went to put some clothes on.

He should have put on slacks and an oxford button down, something appropriate for a business meeting, but the kid was in another plaid shirt. If Stiles could dress for comfort, then so could he, so he threw on a tee-shirt and jeans and met the boy in his sitting room. Stiles had made himself at home without an invitation to do so, had sat himself down on the couch and set his laptop to running on the table. Such familiarity was unnerving. Most people stood at attention like little soldiers when faced with a member of the royal family. Not this kid.

“So why are you here?”

“The eternal question to which we might never know the answer,” Stiles said in a misty voice, his eyes drifting to the ceiling, a tableau of a man in prayer. “The ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything.”

“It’s forty-two,” Derek couldn’t stop himself from replying.

The boy’s eyes turned from heaven and fell on him as he smiled. “You are such a dork. That’s awesome!”

“Still didn’t answer the question.” He shifted his weight as Stiles turned that earnest smile toward his laptop.

“Right, your royal dorkiness, the reason I’m here today. And that’s because Lydia has fine-tuned the plans a bit more.” He typed a few lines, giving Derek time to settle on the couch beside him, time to regain his composure after being caught so off guard, time for the warmth of the boy to seep through his shirt and into his arm, time for him to watch the boy’s long fingers move with purpose across the keyboard. They might have earned the descriptor of elegant were the kid's movements not quite so rapid.

He forced his eyes to look away from those fingers to the machine they were controlling. A calendar of May filled half the screen, each weekend blocked off in thick bands of different colors, each one, he was sure, coded to represent a different type of event. Stiles started clicking each band in turn, summarizing the text that popped up with details of the event Lydia had planned. He was brief but thorough, outlining the importance of the event -- be it a parade, carnival, or play -- before moving on to the next. Years in public service had taught Derek how to read and listen simultaneously; he could see that Stiles was not simply providing the gist of the text his boss had provided but also adding information that was actually important for him to know. Lydia may be the master planner, but Stiles, surprisingly, was the master strategist.

“Why put the play here?” Derek questioned. “Wouldn’t it make more sense the following weekend?”

“Logistically, yeah,” Stiles agreed. “Less set up time and easier crowd control, but it would be too similar to the Living Painting exhibit. When things are too much alike, people get bored. And bored crowds equals bad plan. Always.”

“That’s not in the notes,” he commented, watching the kid as he leaned in to study the words on the screen.

He offered a shrug. “Common sense, I guess.” Despite his disagreement with Derek’s idea, he typed the suggestion that the date of the play be moved.

“You don’t have to--”

“Nope. It’s already there.”

“You know, most people don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking.”

“That’s because most people are probably afraid of you,” Stiles said, glancing at him as his lips turned up into a sly smile. “Having seen your muscles, I’m kind of afraid of you, too.”

Derek tried not to laugh. He mostly succeeded.

“Anyway!” Stiles said a bit too loudly. “The one thing Lydia failed to put in this whole long month of ‘Yay Faron!’ is a charity road race.”

“That really isn’t necessary.”

“Oh, but it totally is,” disagreed the boy beside him. “You, sir, are king of the road. You’ve won how many of the races you’ve been in? Like one hundred percent, am I right?”

His face felt hot as he avoided the eager stare. “Not every race. A few got rained out. I had a tire fail once, and there was the time my drive shaft broke.”

“Excuse me, nine-nine-point-two percent,” Stiles amended sarcastically. “Road race. It’s going on the calendar. Now pick a charity.”

“Laura always picks--”

“Pick a fucking charity!”

It wasn’t often that someone yelled at him, especially someone outside his immediate family. His teachers and tutors wouldn’t have dared. Coach yelled at him, but Coach yelled at everyone. And everything. The man had spent an hour berating the tire that had blown out in the final lap and cost Derek the win. But to have this boy shouting at him at their second meeting was beyond shocking. He opened his mouth to protest, to call a security detail, to yell at him in return. Instead, he found himself saying, “FSPCA.”

“Good one. Save the cuddly puppies. That’s going to make for some great photo-ops,” Stiles agreed and added a note into the calendar. “Dude, they’re going to run out of dogs in the shelter after that one.”

“Don’t call me dude,” he reminded the kid.

Stiles snorted. “You can’t scare me now that I know you’re all soft caramel center. How many adopted puppies do you have running around this place? Like ten?”

“None. They ruin the floors.”

“That sounds like something parents keep saying until you think it’s true, but you totally want a whole pack of dogs. Am I right?”

Derek wasn’t going to admit it, but Stiles was absolutely right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faro = Beacon (en Espanol )  
> Hence Faron. 
> 
> I put some serious thought and a tiny bit of effort into finding Spanish equivalents for a lot of location names before I just gave up and started calling everything Beacon Hills, high school, etc.


	3. A Change of Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a disagreement is had.

“I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose.”

It took every ounce of self-control Derek possessed not to spin around at the sound of the familiar voice. More than just being humiliating and beneath a man of his status, such a reaction would have impaled him with far too many fine-pointed tailor's pins. He kept his face impassive and tone even when he replied. “Maybe if I had known you were coming, I could have arranged a more appropriate outfit.”

Stiles laughed and waved his complaint away. “I’ve seen you in less.”

“That is not what it sounds like, Tobias,” Derek assured the man pinning his trousers to length.

“I make no judgements, your grace.”

“There’s nothing to judge anyway,” he insisted, fighting the glare he was so desperate to send at the intruder. It had been a week without the hyperactive spaz taking up space in his life. A week of routine and order. After their encounter on the previous Sunday, he had thought he’d seen the last of Stiles. Bicentennial organization was well underway; a small army of dedicated workers spent every waking hour under Martin & Martin’s command, making calls, reserving venues, contacting authorities and celebrities. Lydia and her entourage of modelesque assistants had swept through the palace, taking inventory of portraits, heirlooms, and outfits, which led to Derek being made to stand stock still for far too long as he was fitted for a new suit just for the occasion. Fittings were there worst. A fitting for a formal jacket, waistcoat, and trousers was pure hell. He didn't want to admit how happy he was for the distraction Stiles provided.

“Let's take a break, Tobias.”

“Of course, your grace.” The old man rose with a creaky groan. “I'll see to his highness and return on the hour, if it pleases your grace.” He offered a shallow bow, backed away, and bowed again at the door before making his exit.

Derek nodded quickly, eager to be rid of the septuagenarian and his antique mannerisms. Such formalities were no longer common, but among the wizened courtiers and staff members they were still the norm. When presented with such things, Derek just accepted the respectful language without paying it an excess of attention, but he felt embarrassed in a way he never before had to have Stiles hear it, to have Stiles see him welcoming it. He had to look like such an elitist, arrogant ass, lording over his elders in such a way.

“Tobias was my grandfather's tailor,” Derek said as if it might excuse any offense taken or assumption made. “He’s seventy-nine.”

“And still so spritely,” Stiles muttered. 

“Court used to be a lot more formal when he started. Interactions more strict. Social hierarchy a lot more rigid.”

“I bet,” replied the boy with a nod of agreement. The motion slowed as he considered his clothes; more of the same, everything oversized and comfortable. “I probably never would have gotten through the gate in this.”

“It’s not like that anymore.”

“I’m starting to think you’re ashamed of your lot in life.” The words were close enough to what he had said when he arrived unannounced in the room that Derek was able to hear the difference in his tone. There was no smirk or sarcasm, not a hint of humor. Stiles was assessing him with absolute honesty, and his observation was painfully accurate. 

“Why are you here?” Derek asked. 

“Lydia agreed with me on the road race.”

“She could have called to say that. Or had her assistant’s assistant do it.”

“Maybe you didn’t realize it, but this bicentennial is kind of a big deal,” Stiles said. As he spoke, his hand moved to the unassembled pieces of jacket Tobias had laid out on the table nearby. Those long and nearly elegant fingers slid across the fabric. That particular piece would become the left lapel; Derek’s chest warmed, his skin tingled as he imagined the boy repeating those attentions once the jacket was complete. His overactive mind stuttered to a stop as Stiles continued, “With everything she’s got happening, she just doesn’t have the time to plan the race herself. I think she was afraid to tell you that she’d have to delegate that responsibility.”

“Lydia Martin? Afraid?”

“Inconceivable, I know. There’s like nothing she can’t do. Literally nothing.” There was something in the way he said it, a kind of awed affection. It spoke to something more than friendship, more than professional appreciation. 

“You’re in love with her.” 

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care who Stiles fancied, what he said, what he thought. Yet he did. Despite the boy’s irritating tendency to show up unannounced and prattle on about whatever entered his brain, he kind of liked the kid. He was weird, yes, but also normal. Normal in a way that Derek would never be. Unburdened and free in a way he never would be. It almost hurt to hear him talk about Lydia and how amazing she was, how brilliant and perfect she was. And talk he did, ad nauseum, until Derek knew more about the young woman than he ever cared to. He hated hearing it. Someone so blinded by love couldn’t possibly see anyone else.

“I thought you said she had a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, Jackass Jackson,” Stiles confirmed. “They’ve been together since they were like thirteen. When they split up for about five minutes, I thought I had a chance. That was the year she stopped pretending to be stupid, and we got to be friends.”

“Just friends?” Derek asked.

“Just friends,” he said, sounding resigned as he made a helpless gesture with his hands. 

His eyes followed the movement of those upturned palms and caught the hardened, discolored calluses there. “What did that?”

Stiles glanced at his hands, fingers sliding over the raised skin. “Working out.”

Derek said nothing as he looked at the skinny figure in baggy clothes. 

“What? I work out,” the kid insisted. “I play lacrosse. I’m shit at it, but I still play it. We can’t all be like that.” He gestured broadly at Derek, his bare chest and muscles. 

“Lacrosse, huh? Why not basketball?”

“Because my best friend wanted to play lacrosse, so I tried out with him.” 

“Is he as shit as you?” Derek asked. If his parents, or even Laura, heard him talking so informally, they’d have slapped him. Everyone in the royal family was forbidden to swear. Ever. Not even privately. Not even when completely alone. The logic, as had been explained to him at the age of five, was that if something became a habit in private, it could easily slip in public. So he kept his curses in his head, and never voiced so much as a ‘damn’ in earshot of another human being. Why he thought it was acceptable to talk in such a way now, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just Stiles’s influence.

“In the beginning, yeah. We warmed the bench together,” Stiles smiled at the memory. “But one day his coordination grew in, he made first line and was co-captain with Jackass Jackson inside the school year.”

“And you?”

“Still shit.”

His stomach dropped as he realized just how young Stiles must be. He sounded like he was still in school. Lydia, he was sure, was twenty, which meant Stiles could easily be as young as sixteen. A sickness roiled in his gut. He didn't know why it mattered, but he hated that Stiles was so young. Too young.

“So you’re here to talk about the race?” His voice didn’t shake and bile didn’t fill his mouth, for which he was immensely grateful.

“Yeah, absolutely. Lydia said that’s my job, so best get used to looking at me,” Stiles said with a grin. “Though I can only work Sundays. Got other things to do, you know. Very busy and important guy, right here.”

Derek knew what was occupying his time. School. Homework. Student driver lessons, too, probably. “Sundays are fine.”

“Right, so let’s get to it!” the kid said with all his youthful enthusiasm, slapping his hands together hard enough to have the sound echoing off the walls and reverberating in his chest. “Let’s plan a route. No fair picking one that you’ll win.”

“I’d win regardless,” he replied without thinking. “Shit, forget I said that.”

“Naw, dude, you’re good. No need to hide it as long as you’re aren’t being an ass about it.”

“No, forget I said it,” he insisted, hating the way his chest swelled to hear Stiles compliment him. The kid was just that, a kid. He likely couldn't distinguish a good racer from a mediocre one even if their skills were presented on a color coded chart before his eyes. Was it any wonder he behaved as he did? He was a child. He had no idea about the level of manners expected in a place like the royal palace. No one had taught him how to act, how to dress. Knowing his lack of formality was born of his age and inexperience should have made his behaviors more endearing, but it made Derek feel ill. It made him want to be out of the boy’s company. “Look, I’ll give you a few names to call, people who know how to organize a race.”

“But this is your race,” said Stiles, his confusion obvious. “Yours. Your country, your city, your family, your charity. You should be the one to decide where it’s going.”

“I’m not a planner, Stiles. Leave that to people who actually know what they’re doing.”

Silence stretched out between them. The boy’s eyes flitting across his face, studying him. Despite spending all twenty-four years of his life under constant scrutiny, he found it unnerving. Maybe it was the proximity of the person scrutinizing him. Maybe it was the fact that whatever Stiles thought showed on his face. Whatever the reason, Derek pushed himself off the couch and away from him. 

“There’s a lot to consider -- public safety not even the least of it,” he insisted. “Experts spend years laying out courses. We can’t just throw one together in a couple weeks.”

“Months,” Stiles corrected.

“No. It’s weeks. Everything needs to be set well in advance, and all with prior approval from the mayor, city council, and business committees, to have time to publicize the thing and make sure proper safety precautions can be arranged. To make that happen, you would need the course arranged inside a week.”

“So why are you wasting time arguing with me?” the boy questioned. It wasn’t the words he used, but the way he said them. Patronizing. Belittling. That tone was a slap in the face, an insult of the highest order. He might as well have called him a fuckwit. 

Derek squared his shoulders and stared down at the kid with his casual insults and oversized clothes. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? I am not one of your little lacrosse teammates.”

“No, you’re the douchey basketball jock,” he retorted. “You might be a prince, but you’re kind of a dick.”

“And you’re a little shit.”

“This is not news,” Stiles said, standing and moving closer. “What is news is that you’re so afraid to make a fucking decision. Who picked that suit?” His fingers flicked the material Tobias had laid out on the table with such care, material Lydia and his mother had spent the better part of an hour selecting. “Who arranged the tailor? Who decides what girls you dance with at your fancy parties? Do they tell you when you can go take a shit?”

“You can leave now.” Derek gestured to the door.

“It wasn’t even your choice that I was here to begin with. Are you sure you get to decide when I leave?” 

He didn’t shout, though he wanted to. He didn’t punch the little bastard in the face, though he really wanted to. What he did do was put every bit of his anger away, pushed it down deep, so that the only thing that came out of his mouth was cold indifference. Derek was the prince of the Royal House of Hale, a family that had rules over Faron for two hundred years. And Stiles was no one.

“Get out.”

“As you wish, your grace.” Stiles bowed as Tobias had done, walking away without showing Derek his back. He bowed again at the door, lower. As he rose, the kid offered Derek a look that spoke of how little he really thought of his prince. That brief glance was more expressive and insulting than parting jibe he might have spoken, and it made bile crawl up his throat. 

“Well, fuck you, too,” he muttered.

“What was that, your grace?” Tobias asked from the doorway.

“Nothing.”

“Fine, fine,” the old man said. “Her royal majesty is most pleased with the progress on his highness’ suit.”

“Well, she would; she picked it all out.” 

He couldn’t contain the bitter laugh. Stiles had been right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as an FYI, I'm fairly certain I've started work on the final chapter (chapter 29 if you were wondering). I see room for improvement in a pretty vital chapter some ways back, so the numbering may change a bit. But just know that the end is nigh!!!


	4. ICE: In Case of Emergency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek does something stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song 2: [Beth Orton - Stolen Car](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uJ35dnfYKrQ)  
> Judge it not by its weird, rubbish music video.

The ringing wouldn’t stop. He knew that he could focus, could think of what to do. If only it would stop. But it didn’t. It wouldn’t. He didn’t know what to do. The car was ruined, glass shattered, roof dented, paint scraped down to the bare metal; rear quarter panel lying halfway up the hill; a tree where the passenger seat ought to be. One wheel spun idly in the air as if it were still trying to make the turn. 

Derek blinked, but his vision didn't clear. 

He didn’t know what to do. 

He didn’t know who to call. 

Not the police. 

Not the paramedics. They would bring the police.

Coach. No. Coach would yell at him for an hour before deciding this was brilliant publicity for the team. Photographers would be on him before the man bothered calling an ambulance. Anyone on the team was also a no. They would call Coach.

His sisters would tell their parents. His parents would be so disappointed. They wouldn’t yell. They would probably disband the racing team, which would be worse. 

Everyone he knew would either sell the story to the press or go immediately to his family. 

There was no one. 

There was Stiles. 

This was Stiles’s fault to begin with. He had been the one to show Derek how scared he was of his own life, of making his own choices and being his own person. Stiles had done this. Stiles had goaded him into making his first spur-of-the-moment decision in seven years. What a piss poor one it had turned out to be. Almost as disastrous as the one he had made at seventeen. At least this time, no one else was in danger.

He blinked again, trying to remember what he had wanted to do.

Call Stiles. 

He didn’t know how to reach him. 

Lydia did.

His fingers shook as he searched through his pockets for his phone. When he finally found it, he saw there was blood on his hands. Seeing it made him shake all the more, but he managed to find her number.

“Martin,” said the groggy voice on the other end of the line. 

“Lydia.”

“Your grace, it’s two in the morning.”

“I need to talk to Stiles,” he said, certain that his voice was shaking as bad as his hands.

Lydia heard it, too. “You sound strange. Have you been drinking?”

“No. I… I just need to talk to him. Now.”

There was a pause the length of purgatory during which he knew the woman had to be calling his parents, the press, and the police, but she offered a resigned sigh. “Texting it to you now. Whatever this is, just keep it out of the papers, please. PR spin is not my department.”

“It’s n-nothing. J-just an idea,” he said, his teeth clattering together as his body started to quake.

The number was there on his screen when she hung up. It took three attempted before he was able to line up his red finger with the series of numerals. Once he managed it, the phone took care of the rest, connecting and calling the person he truly thought he wouldn’t ever speak to again. 

“This is Stiles.” Even through the ringing that still filled his ears, he could hear how awake the kid was. 

“Don’t you sleep?” he questioned stupidly.

“Hey, you called me. You have no right to judge. Now who is this?”

“It’s Derek.”

“Oh, the royal dickhead. What can I do for you now?”

That Stiles might also be angry had not occurred to him; that he might not want to talk to Derek or be willing to help certainly hadn’t. He hesitated before deciding this was a bad idea. All his ideas were bad. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Dude, you wouldn’t have called me at quarter after two in the morning if it was nothing. What’s going on?”

“I… I did something stupid.”

“Okay, how stupid are we talking? Like on a scale of poking a sleeping bear to invading Russia during winter.”

“I dunno,” Derek said, failing to keep his words from slurring, “kicking Hitler out of art school.” 

“Damn, that’s like an eight-point-seven level of stupid. Tell me where you are. I’ll be right there.” 

“No, no, you shouldn’t.” He didn’t want to insult him by insisting he was too young to drive unsupervised. “Is your father--”

“The last person you want involved in your stupid is my dad. Trust me on this. Now where are you?”

So Derek told him where the car had gone off the road, told him how far it had rolled and slid until it fell down into the woods. Then he sat and quaked as the adrenaline of the wreck and the joyride drained, leaving him bloody, pained, and alone with the results of his stupidity. He didn’t know how long he waited, but it felt like both eternity and no time at all before Stiles was standing in front of him. He had never been so happy to see plaid in his life.

“Do I need to tell you how lucky you are to be alive right now?”

“No.”

“Good, because you are one lucky asshole,” Stiles assured him as he took a closer look at the car. “Probably a stupid question, but do you have insurance?”

It required too much effort to stand, to make his way toward Stile and the ruined car, so he just leaned against the nearest tree. “Yes, but it’s not mine. I stole it.”

“Dude!”

He flinched away from the shout, the world going foggy around the edges as he swayed on his feet. “Don’t yell.”

“Shit, I think you hit your head pretty hard. How many fingers?” he asked, waving a hand in front of his face.

Derek had to grip the boy’s wrist to hold the hand steady enough to count. “Six.”

“Well, you’re either dreaming or you have a concussion. I doubt you’d dream about me, though, so we’ll assume concussion.”

“The car. They can’t find out I stole it,” Derek insisted, clinging desperately to Stiles’ shirt and to consciousness. “They’ll -- I’d -- Shit, I dunno. They just can’t.”

The boy carefully peeled each finger away from the plaid shirt as he studied his injuries and panic. “I’ll take care of it. Where did you get the car?”

“It was on the street. Outside… outside the botanical garden.”

“Anyone see you? Security cameras? Press? Those nutty royal watchers with their cell phones pointed at you?”

“No. No one. Just me.”

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure,” he groaned. “The world is spinning.”

“Rung your bell good, didn’t you?” Stiles said, fingers wiping the blood away from his eyes. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“But the car--” 

“You out first, then I will deal with the car.” He sounded so sure that Derek agreed. Leaning his weight against the boy, he made his way slowly up the embankment until that damned curve was in sight. An ancient Jeep was off to the side of the road, its baby blue paint completely without luster, looking as if it had stalled there rather than been intentionally parked.

“You drove that?”

“Are you knocking my ride?”

“Kinda surprised you even know how to drive,” Derek admitted as he fell into the passenger seat. “Thought you might be too young.”

Stiles laughed, face splitting in a grin, or maybe that was the blurred vision making his smile appear wider than it truly was. “I get that a lot. Give me a minute, then we’ll get out of here.”

“What are you--?”

“Ask questions later,” he commanded, and Derek obeyed. 

He leaned into the seat, trying to keep his eyes open, focusing on the noise Stiles was making as he dug around in the back of the Jeep. The noises stopped. Stiles was gone. Derek waited. He didn’t know what the kid intended to do, but he sounded so confident that Derek was fairly convinced he knew what he was doing. He hoped the kid knew what he was doing. The darkness and silence crept in on him. Just as he was being pulled toward sleep, a painfully loud explosion split the night, shocking Derek back into consciousness. A blinding fireball erupted from the forest’s edge far too close to the damaged car and to Stiles; a pillar of light and heat followed, so intense that sweat began to bead on his forehead even at this safe distance. 

Before he could think to react, to help, Stiles was running up the hill and scrambling into the driver’s seat. “Now we go,” he said and sped away. 

“You blew up the car.”

“That I did,” Stiles agreed. 

“You came when I called.”

“Yeah, I did that, too.”

The Jeep slowed to the speed limit as silence crept between them. He should say something, thank him at least. They weren’t friends. They’d only met three times, and not because they chose to. Stiles was just doing a job, one that did not include rescuing a prince and saving his reputation. He owed the kid his gratitude. He opened his mouth to give it, but Stiles was talking. 

“You really have no friends, do you?”

“I have friends,” Derek muttered. 

“Clearly not if you’re calling me and not them,” he reasoned, offering what felt like a terribly reproachful glance. “Clearly not if what I said pissed you off that much. That’s what friends do. They say shit that pisses you off. They call you on your shit.”

“Not my friends.”

“Then your friends suck. If they can’t tell you what they really think of you, then they aren’t your friends. I don’t care if you’re a prince. If you’re being a dick, I’m going to call you a dick. Maybe not in front of your parents or, you know, burly royal bodyguards, but I will tell you. And to your face.”

Derek tried to glare at him, but it hurt too much. He sat in sullen silence instead, the boy’s words rolling through his shaken head and hitting far too close to home. 

“So where are we going? I’m thinking a hospital would be a very good idea.”

“No,” he said. “There’s a doctor in the palace. He won’t tell my parents more than they need to know.”

“Cool.” Stiles pointed the Jeep toward city center, driving with just enough caution to avoid the attention of the police despite being the only vehicle on the road at that hour. It was enough to make him wonder how often Stiles broke the law that he so expertly knew how to avoid detection. 

The sound of the gravel crunching under the Jeep’s knobby tires made the ache intensify in his head, but it was a welcome pain. It meant they were home. Derek handed over the security badge he had never used and mumbled the pin code to the gate. Stiles maneuvered his vehicle to a side entrance, parking by a narrow door guarded by a single, massive man that he was sure he had never seen before. 

“Stiles,” the guard said. 

“Boyd, how you been, buddy?”

“Not your buddy,” the man replied, eyeing them both carefully as they approached. There was no way he could miss the blood on Derek’s face and clothes or the way he had to lean on Stiles just to stay upright. “I’m supposed to report things like this directly to the Queen.”

Derek felt the panic rising. 

Stiles, however, just smiled. “You could tell her,” he agreed. “Or you could let us in and get that thing I know you’ve been wanting.”

The man’s dark eyes narrowed as he considered the bribe; Derek wondered what Stiles was offering -- money, drugs, sex. The guard stood aside with a nod and unlocked the door. “You still need a pat-down.”

Stiles groaned. “Again? Really?”

“Rules.”

He left Derek leaning on the wall just inside the door. “Won’t be a minute,” he promised.

Arms raised, chin up, Stiles waited. The guard -- Boyd -- approached with a dull grey wand, waving it over the kid in search of any contraband metal objects. It didn’t make the slightest noise. That should have been enough, but he came back again, touching the boy, gliding his hands over his body, under his arms, around his back, down his sides.

“That’s enough,” Derek decided before he could reach for the boy’s legs. “He doesn’t have any weapons.”

“It’s protocol, sir,” Boyd said apologetically. 

“Not for him. He doesn’t get searched again.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but that’s--”

“Never again.” He bit the words out.

“Yes, sir. I’ll have his name added to the green list.” He offered the slightest bow of his head and returned to his post outside the door without another glance at either of them. 

Derek pushed away from the wall and staggered down the corridor. He didn’t know where he was in the palace, but he knew that getting away from Boyd was a very good idea. If he were in anything bordering a healthy physical state, he would have attacked the man for daring to put his hands on Stiles. It was stupid, he knew, but it was true. He hated that anyone would touch the boy. Anyone but him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to the internet for the historical scale of stupidity as defined by yurstrulyceleste & jenna-lousie. Google it.
> 
> Also, in case you weren't aware, emergency responders will look under ICE (In Case of Emergency) in your phone contacts should you ever, heaven forbid, be in an accident.


	5. Foul-weather Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek makes a friend.

Rage and no small amount of self-loathing fueled his movements through the palace. Once he landed on familiar ground, Derek knew the fastest and least guarded routes from the servant’s entrance to the family’s private wing. Stiles took his weight when he couldn’t manage to carry on alone. With his arm wrapped around the boy’s shoulder and his face so close, he couldn’t help but study him, the constellation of moles on his skin, the flush of his cheeks, the slope of his nose, the southern turn of his mouth.

“Why did you just stand there?” Derek asked. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Stiles managed a half shrug. “Just the way it is.”

“Shouldn’t be.”

“I’m just a nobody dropping by unannounced. Not like we’re friends or anything,” the boy said, pushing a new pain into Derek’s already aching chest. 

He didn’t dare contradict him because he knew Stiles was right. If given the choice of people he would willingly spend his time with, Derek likely would never have made Stiles’s list. He was too reclusive, too unreachable, too much work for not enough reward. Not for the first time, he wondered who Stiles did take as friends. He knew Lydia. Apparently, he knew the guard; that, he reasoned, was more than likely an acquaintance born of their encounters at the palace entrance on his few visits. 

Before he could ask how he knew Boyd, Stiles was pushing open the door to Derek’s room and depositing the prince on the couch in the reception room. 

“So where’s the doctor?” he asked. 

Derek pointed to the phone. “Extension 2-0-1-1.”

Stiles did as he was directed, calling the number and fidgeting impatiently while he waited for a response. Doctor Alan Deaton, Derek knew, was a light sleeper and kept the ringer turned to maximum in case of such emergencies. It took no time at all for the man to answer, to get the basics from Stiles, to be at Derek’s door with his doleful eyes and tranquil tone. 

“You’re not looking your best, are you, Derek?” the man questioned, something of a smile in his sedate voice.

“Does he need a hospital? I told him we should go to the hospital,” Stiles said, pacing the rug as Deaton began his examination. 

“We have more than enough medical equipment on the premises to tend to whatever ails him, I assure you,” the doctor informed him. 

Fingers prodded at his skull, his neck. Deaton made no comments while Stiles worried a thumbnail with his teeth and continued to pace. His ruined shirt was cut away so the doctor could inspect his shoulder and ribs. 

“Are they broken?” Stiles asked. 

“Most likely bruised, but an x-ray would be wise. I’ll arrange for one tomorrow. For tonight, I think sleep is the best prescription I could give you. And a strong painkiller,” Deaton said. With the assessment complete, he started cleaning the multitude of cuts.

“Shit, those look deep,” Stiles muttered, sounding queasy. 

“I think you’d better sit down, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Yeah, probably,” Stiles agreed and fell onto the seat beside Derek, dropping his head between his knees. He kept it there while Deaton completed his work. 

“Quite the friend you have there, Derek. At least he's heroic when it matters most,” Deaton said and patted the boy on the shoulder.

His reply came muffled through the fabric of his pants, “Did I earn a medal?” 

“No, you earned a night keeping watch over our prince. Concussions require rest, but I would prefer someone monitor him. I’m volunteering you for that task, Mr. Stilinski.” He collected the remnants of bandages and jars of ointment back into his black leather satchel, clicking the lock like a punctuation mark. 

“What about the cuts?” the kid asked, face still firmly between his legs. 

“There won’t be the slightest evidence that they were there. You won’t even remember the blood once you’ve changed your clothes,” Deaton promised. “Yours included, Mr. Stilinski. I’ll bring something for you to wear--”

“He can have mine,” Derek said. If he hadn’t lost quite so much blood, he would be blushing at the look the doctor sent his way. 

It wasn’t that Derek wasn’t willing to share his overabundance of things. It came down to a lack of opportunity. Anyone that stayed the night as a guest of the palace generally came prepared with multiple suitcases providing ample choice of attire to suit any activity imaginable and usually a servant to help them dress, as well. Stiles, clearly, had not intended for his visit to extend overnight. He had nothing. Derek had plenty. He could share. 

“Very generous of you, Derek. Be careful dressing. Your ribs will be quite painful even with the medications,” Deaton said. “I’ll wait here for your clothes.”

“But--” Stiles started to protest. 

“Don’t worry. The laundry is efficient. Your things will be returned to you by morning.” 

It seemed to Derek as if the boy had no choice but to accept what was being offered and demanded. He hated that Stiles wasn’t being allowed to leave. He hated that, if given the opportunity, he might choose to. Worse was that, he wanted to prevent that opportunity from ever being given. He wanted Stiles to stay.

“This way,” he muttered, leading the way through to his dressing room. He put clothes on the lounge and stood back, trying to make the words come out, trying to give the boy a choice. 

“Sorry about this,” Stiles said. “I know you don’t really want me crashing in your room, but I don’t think that man knows the meaning of the word ‘no’.”

Derek blinked back his confusion. “You don’t have to stay.”

“Doc’s orders, right?” He shrugged and started undressing, shucking his blood-streaked shirts before Derek could look away. Without the excess fabric drowning him, Derek found he wasn’t nearly as skinny as he had assumed. The boy was thin, yes, but muscled in a way that implied training and use. Lacrosse, he remembered. Stiles played lacrosse, which meant hours spent running and wielding the stick with controlled precision to catch and aim the ball. If his coach was anything like Derek’s had been, there was not a day of the week that Stiles wasn’t doing at least thirty minutes of mandatory calisthenics.

“Do I really need to ask for some privacy?” Stiles questioned. 

It took too long for his mind to catch up to what he was looking at, which was Stiles with his thumbs hooked in the waist of his underwear. 

“Sorry. A little slow right now.” Derek grabbed his own change of clothes and moved toward his bedroom on heavy legs, forcing his brain not to flood with thoughts of Stiles and just how naked he was at the precise moment. Even under ideal circumstances, that would have been difficult; damaged as he was by the crash, it was asking for the impossible. As he stripped out of his clothes, he could only think of what he had seen as the boy did the same thing. Derek tried to focus on that fact, the fact that Stiles was a boy, a child. He didn’t know how old Stiles was, but he knew the kid was still in high school, far too young to be the object of a twenty-four-year-old’s desires. 

“Yo, Derek,” the boy’s voice came through the door. “Doc wants our clothes, remember?”

“Yeah, fine. Come in.”

Stiles pushed through the door, his eyes traveling every inch of the room inside the few steps it took him to reach the pile of clothes Derek had made on the floor. “Nice digs,” the boy commented and collected the discarded items. “Be back in a minute.” 

He should have told the kid not to bother coming back. He should have locked the door to keep him out. He should have done countless smarter things, but instead he stood by his bed and waited. Through the open door, he could hear Deaton and Stiles talking. He could hear his own name in their conversation but could make out nothing else. It was hardly novel. People routinely had discussions about him; they were just generally more discreet about it. 

“All right,” Stiles said, charging into the room as if he were a regular visitor there. “Doc says sleep is good. He also says that if you try to rip your bandages off in the night, I have permission to slap you.”

“I think it’s still a lifetime prison sentence for assaulting a member of the royal family,” Derek countered. 

“Medical degree trumps blue blood,” he argued. 

“We both know it’s not that blue.”

“Shut up and get in bed,” Stiles ordered, waving an impatient hand. “It’s been a long night, and we have big plans tomorrow, you and I.”

He groaned as his body protested the movement of lying down. “My plans are to sleep. It’s a good plan.”

“You thought stealing a car was a good plan,” he said with a snort. “You don’t get to pick my plans.”

“Ass.”

“Dick.”

Now that sounds like a plan, Derek thought as sleep came fast upon him. He dropped off while looking at Stiles’ smirking face. 

Oddly, the crash was not the thing that most filled his bruised head that night. He dreamed, instead, of Stiles. Nearly naked, yes, but also in his signature plaids. In his bed, certainly, but also on the couch beside him as he read, at the table with his family at dinner, in the pits at a race. In short, he dreamed that Stiles was in his life, properly and permanently. Despite the damaged ribs, cuts, and bruises, it was the most restful sleep he had experienced in nearly eight years.

He slept so well, he didn’t want the night to end, but the sound of breakfast being brought into his rooms woke him. With that noise came a wave of panic that hit him like a fist. He didn’t know where Stiles had slept, if he was within sight of the servants, if they would report his presence to the Queen. His attempts to sit up left him fighting for consciousness, the livid pain of his ribs stabbing into his side. 

“What?” the boy mumbled sleepily. 

“Shut up, idiot,” Derek hissed. 

“No way to talk to your knight in baby blue armor,” he complained. “What’s that noise?”

“Breakfast being delivered by someone who does not need to know you’re here. Shut the hell up.” His voice was so low it was practically a growl, but Stiles got the message and said nothing more. 

With a quiet click signaling the door to the main chamber closing, Derek allowed himself to breathe. He regretted it immediately. “Shit, that hurts.”

“Well, you done stupid,” Stiles reminded him. He stretched out on the lounge, making a show of how easy it was without any part of his body bruised or broken. The little shit. So distracting was the body that it took him a moment to realize that body shouldn't have slept in his room. More than just a matter of privacy or protocol, there was simply nowhere for him to have slept. There was no couch in his bedroom.

“Wait, that’s the lounge from my dressing room,” he said. “Did you move that on your own?”

“Yep, not like you were in any condition to help me.”

“Deaton could--”

“Doc had already taken our stuff away,” Stiles interrupted and shot to his feet, far too energetic considering the early hour and their limited amount of sleep. He scratched at his scalp and yawned, looking every bit the child he was, looking like everything Derek wanted to wake up to every morning.

Forcing his eyes to look at anything but the perfect picture the boy made, Derek studied the bandages on his arms. “My parents are going to kill me.”

“Only if they find out, dude.”

“My mother is Queen. My father is King. They know everything that happens in this country. It’s literally their job,” he contradicted. “When they learn a car was stolen outside a venue that was hosting their son, they are going to put every police officer in the city on the investigation.”

“Good thing I destroyed all the evidence, then, eh? I’m an awesome friend like that.”

And there it was. The very opening he had been wanting. Whatever the answer, he had to ask. “Is that what we are? Friends?”

The line of the boy’s smirking mouth reformed, drawing downward. “I thought so.”

“I thought so, too.”

He smiled again. “Good. Because, as we established last night, all your other friends are shit. So get your royal ass out of bed because you have an entire Sunday to hang out with your new best friend. By which I mean me. Because after chilling with me for a day, you’re going to be all ‘Archduke Dicklicking who?’ the next time he tries to call you.”

Laughing hurt. Trying not to laugh was worse, but it was an old habit that refused to die. He kept the pain off his face even as the spots filled his vision. “A really good friend would go find whatever medications Deaton snuck onto my breakfast tray.”

“Would Archduke Dicklicking go get your prescriptions drugs?” Stiles asked skeptically, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down at him. 

“No, Archduke Deucalion would make his dogsbody fetch them.”

The boy continued to stand imperiously over him. “Does that make me your dogsbody?”

“No, because unlike a servant you can tell me to ‘shove it’. I’m really hoping you’re willing to be a good friend and go get my drugs because I’m about to pass out from how much this hurts.”

“Cool, as long as I’m better than Dicklicking. Now that guy is a real dick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The eagle-eyed among you (among the five people reading this) might have noticed that I added a final chapter count. There will likely be some further edits, but I think it's basically complete. (!)


	6. Who You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles continues to perplex and astound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO songs for the playlist, mainly because I couldn't decide which should come next.  
> [Latch Key Kid (feat. Sami Freeman)- Before I Fall](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A-OTLq90qfI)  
> [Bastille - Things We Lost in the Fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MGR4U7W1dZU) ...actually, the more Bastille I listen to, the more convinced I am he/they alone is/are the soundtrack for this story.
> 
> If you've got any song suggestions, send them my way!

6: Who You Know

 

Moving had never been so difficult. The elasticated tape Deaton had applied to his back and sides might have helped keep him from overextending and causing himself more pain, but it didn’t stop him from feeling what was already there. Derek was sure that he cursed more inside that single morning than he had in his entire life, and all he managed to do was get out of his bed. 

 

He was clinging to the bedpost willing the nausea away when Stiles returned. 

 

“You look like eight different kinds of shit. No lie.” 

 

“Hate you so much,” Derek groaned. 

 

“Baby,” the boy snorted, “Open. Medicine time.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Do you really care?” 

 

“No,” Derek admitted and opened his mouth. 

 

Stiles threw two pills onto his tongue, those elegant fingers brushing his lips as he did. Derek focused on that soft touch, not on the agony in his head and side, not on the dizziness threatening to knock him unconscious, or on the vomit trying to rise up his throat. The brief sweep of fingers across his mouth, that was where Derek placed his entire being. 

 

“You’ll feel a bit better soon,” he promised. 

 

“Feeling better already,” Derek assured him. 

 

“Better enough for food?” 

 

“Only one way to find out.” He dragging himself off the bedpost, praying he would be able to stand upright, hoping he would need to lean on the boy for support just to feel his slight frame pressed into his own body, desperate to keep his desires off his face. 

 

Heedless of the war raging between Derek’s head and heart, Stiles stood ready to catch him. He steadied him with a single hand on his stomach, giving him enough time to find his own balance. “You good?”

 

“As I can be under the circumstances.”

 

“I’m right here if you need me,” Stiles said.

 

“I’m trying not to.”

 

“Not to need me?” questioned the boy. “That’s kind of stupid.”

 

Derek bit back the sour laugh. “It’s what I’m known for lately.”

 

“That’s getting to be pretty obvious.”

 

Through sheer stubbornness Derek was able to make his way unassisted to the table in his reception room. The torture of moving so slowly was made infinitely better by Stiles keeping pace with him and staying well inside his kinesphere. He might have stopped short once or twice just so the boy’s hovering hand would brush against his back. Sick filled his mouth with every one of those touches, but it had little to do with the pain. 

 

“And an hour later, we made it. Go Team Sterek!” the boy cheered. 

 

“Sterek? Seriously?”

 

“Deiles sounds stupid.”

 

Any further comment about the ridiculous nickname was lost in a stream of foul language as he lowered himself down into a chair. Once in that chair, he didn’t dare open his mouth, fearful vomit would come out instead of words. Stiles said nothing and just watched with an anxious look on his face from the other side of the table. That was the only thing helping him maintain his composure, seeing Stiles across the breakfast table from him. He had dreamed it, and now it was real, if only temporary. 

 

“You said you had big plans for the day,” Derek finally managed to remind him. 

 

He blinked, and the concern that had etched lines around his mouth was gone. “Yes, we’re going for a drive.” 

 

“A drive is what got me into this mess.”

 

“No, that was you being a jackass. I’m talking about you and me, together, driving like normal people.” He was filling the only available plate as he talked, taking more food than seemed reasonable for a single, slim boy. He dropped the plate in front of Derek. “Eat. I aim to get out of here in an hour.”

 

A smile pulled at his mouth as he looked down at the mound of food. “Thank you.”

 

“Eat.”

 

When he wanted to, the boy had a very commanding tone, one quite at odds with his haphazard gestures and casual manners. It bade Derek to do as he was ordered, to eat what he was able despite the unpleasant turn his stomach took every time he drew breath. Having Stiles there helped. Being able to look across at him, feel his knees under the table as he fidgeted, it made him happy for reasons he refused to consider and ways he certainly shouldn’t enjoy. 

 

“I’m gonna go change,” Stiles announced and shot up from his seat. “I’ll be back in a minute to help if you need me.” And he was gone. 

 

Derek wanted to wait, to claim inability just to have those hands on his bare skin. He wouldn’t. Such games were beneath him. He rose, clutching his side to keep the ribs from shifting painfully, swallowing down any noise that might have given him away. He was in his dressing room before Stiles could return from the bathroom, stripping and dressing himself before the kid could so much as knock on his door. He frowned at that, positive that he was far slower in the act than Stiles would ever be. The boy was hyperactive in all he did; Derek had to assume he would throw his clothes on with the same speed and apparent disregard that he approached other such tasks. He ought to have finished and come to call on him by now. 

 

“Stiles?” 

 

No response. 

 

Holding his side, he moved as quickly as he could through his rooms. The bathroom door was ajar. The borrowed pajamas lying on the floor, but Stiles was not there. He turned, hoping to find the boy sitting on the couch or back at the table. But, no, Derek was alone. That worried him more than it should.

 

The short sprint to the door left him close to passing out, but he had to find Stiles. His fingers dug into the doorframe as he peered out into the corridor, certain he would see the boy being hauled away by palace guards. What he actually saw was so much worse. 

 

His father. 

 

His father and  _ Stiles _ . 

 

His father and Stiles  _ talking _ . 

 

“Fuck,” Derek breathed. 

 

If his father caught sight of him looking as he did, he was screwed. If his father caught sight of him and learned that he had Stiles in his rooms overnight, he was screwed. If Stiles let his mouth run away with him, they were both royally screwed. 

 

He was trapped in the dilemma of whether to hide or go keep Stiles from saying too much when the boy gave a salute more precise than the one he had offered Laura. It was a salute his father returned before turning and walking away. He was leaving. Leaving without calling the guards, without subjecting Derek to a lecture on palace protocol, without doing anything but that one, single, simple gesture. 

 

Derek was still standing in shocked silence when Stiles returned.

 

“Your dad says ‘get out of bed, you lazy bum’.”

 

“You talked to him,” Derek said, awe and befuddlement making him sound imbecilic.

 

“Well, yeah, he’s the King. It would’ve been rude not to.”

 

“You talked to him, and you’re still here. What did you say?”

 

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “Good morning, some pleasantries about the weather, talked about going for a drive. I made a point of  _ not  _ mentioning the fact that I spent the night in your bedroom watching you sleep while wearing your monogrammed PJs. I didn’t think that would’ve gone over too well.”

 

Derek couldn’t keep from laughing at that. It hurt, but he didn’t care. “No, that probably would have earned you a night in our finest prison. If you were lucky. Wait, were you really watching me sleep?”

 

“Doc’s orders were to keep an eye on you.” His cheeks flushed as he spoke. 

 

“It’s fine, Stiles. I just assumed you slept, too.”

 

His eyes darted up to study his face before he sighed. “Good. Thought you were going to call your dad back to yell at me or something. If we’re done being awkward, can we go driving now?”

 

“I doubt you’re ever done being awkward, but, yeah, we can go. I’ll call a driver.” He reached for the telephone but froze as the boy yelled. 

 

“What? No! No driver!” He swatted at Derek’s hand. “That is not the awesome day I had planned. How are you going to have fun like that?”

 

“It’s protocol,” he replied and pointed to the bruises across the side of his face. “And you see what happens when I try driving myself.”

 

“Dude, you race cars like it’s your mission in life,” Stiles snorted. “That crash was something else entirely. Don’t ask me what; I don’t know the inner workings of Prince Derek the Mud-Stuck, but I do know that skills are not the issue.”

 

He tried to hear only the compliment, but the kid’s words were too critical to allow that. “Mud-Stuck?”

 

“Would you prefer Prince Derek the Stick-in-Ass?”

 

Hoping he was still too low on blood to blush, he shook his head. “You really are a shit friend.”

 

“I’m an awesome friend,” he countered. “I’ll give you Scott’s number. He’ll tell you how great I am.”

 

“Why would I take Scott’s word for it?”

 

The boy scoffed. “Dude, he’s been my best friend since I was like seven. He knows things.”

 

“I definitely need to talk to him, then,” Derek agreed. 

 

“Seriously? You need to verify my awesomeness? Not cool, Derek. Not cool.”

 

“No,” Derek smiled. “I was hoping he could tell me what makes you think you have a shot with Lydia Martin.”

 

“Low blow. I am deducting points from your overall friendship score. You’re now down to like a three-point-five.”

 

“What’s Scott’s score?”

 

“An eleven. Obviously.”

 

“Doesn’t being son of a queen earn me anything?” 

 

“Nope. I took two points away for that because it makes extra trouble when we get up to no good. Last night is a prime example. Scott would never have made me do that because no one would have cared if he did that thing you did,” Stiles said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper even as he redacted details while he spoke, which Derek thought odd until he realized they had been walking throughout the entire debate. His attention had been focused solely on Stiles, not his surroundings or his own considerable discomfort. 

 

They had travelled the length of the palace and all the way out the servant’s entrance, and Derek hadn’t noticed a single thing. Only that Stiles blushed unevenly.

 

“In ya get,” Stiles said, holding the Jeep’s door open for him.

 

“You are kidding, right? I’m not allowed out without a security detail.”

 

“Then you better hurry up and get in before they realize what we’re doing,” the boy grinned. “Unless you like having your every move monitored and reported back to Commander Hardass.”

 

The look the boy levelled on him was one of pure, unadulterated smugness. He knew the answer without Derek having to say a word. How could he not when Derek had gone to such extremes the night before?

 

“Fine,” he huffed, hoisting himself into the Jeep with a few choice adjectives.

 

Stiles shut the door behind him, ran around to the driver's side, and hopped into the seat. He muttered a prayer under his breath as he turned the key in the ignition, grinning like an oaf when it started on the first try. 

 

“Should I be worried that your car starting makes you this happy?” Derek questioned.

 

“Be worried when I run out of duct tape,” the boy replied without explanation. His face paled as he looked out the windshield. “Be worried Commander Hardass is heading this way.”

 

Derek followed his eye to see the sour face of Commander Adrian Harris as the man moved through the servant's door and out into the gravel drive. He had not yet looked at the Jeep, but he soon would. Their day would be over before it even began. The man was notorious for his lack of humor. Even among the uniformly serious palace guard, he was considered exceptionally dour.

 

“Put this on.” Stiles threw his plaid shirt in Derek's face.

 

He didn't need to question the boy's reasoning. It was obvious that he would never be seen in such a thing. From that distance, Harris would only be able to identify them as two males; if he thought one might be the size and general shape of the prince then the plaid would dissuade him from that idea. It was a brilliant manipulation, and Derek said as much.

 

“You just earned back one friend point,” Stiles informed him and directed the car toward the gate.

 

The tall iron gate emblazoned with their family crest of a wolf and triskele had been unguarded when they used it in the early hours of that morning. With the gate unlocked for morning deliveries, it was blocked by a single, massive guard, one Derek recognized and thoroughly disliked.

 

“Boyd, buddy,” Stiles greeted him.

 

“Still not your buddy,” the man replied. “Still waiting for what I was promised.”

 

Derek wanted to know what the man's price was, so he said nothing as Stiles fished in his pants pocket for his phone. His clever fingers flew across the screen, tapping and swiping manically until he held it out the window for the guard to read. “There ya go.”

 

Boyd studied the screen with such intensity it seemed entirely possible the phone would catch fire. “You sure that's it?”

 

“Man of honor, right here.”

 

The guard snorted his response and waved them through. The boy gave him a mocking salute and drove through the open gate and out into the city.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the spacing is a little weird. I don't know what's up with that.


	7. On the Road Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our boys go for a drive... or five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I commandeered the Catalonia region of Spain to create Faron. No reason other than it being a prime location. That said, I've never been there and am doing a bare minimum of Googling to look at pretty pictures of the area as I write. Basically... I'm making this sh*t up as I go. FYI. 
> 
> Song for playlist: [Anthony Hamilton & Elayna Boynton - Freedom](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_bdOTUocn5w)

7: On the Road Again

Minutes ticked past with the central boulevard rolling by his window. Derek counted the tall, narrow cypress trees as he often did, marking out the meters. He was waiting. Waiting for the guards to come rolling up behind them in their bulletproof SUVs. Waiting for a blockade to appear on the road ahead.

 

When the trees and meters continued to fly by with no sign of pursuit, Derek questioned, “They aren’t coming, are they?”

 

“Nope,” Stiles agreed, signaling his turn off the main street onto a side road of shops. “Why would they? Not like there’s a prince in this thing, just some dude in a plaid shirt.” He glanced away from the road long enough to hit Derek with a proud smile. “Feel free to praise my genius again.”

 

“Stop being an ass,” he said but couldn’t make himself sound even the slightest bit stern. “And keep your eyes on the road. I already look awful enough without getting into a second crash.”

 

“You’re shitting me, right?” the kid demanded. “You actually think a few bruises somehow make you less ridiculously attractive?” He scoffed and shook his head.

 

Derek forced his eyes to remain trained on the side mirror, knowing that if he didn’t he would be staring at Stiles as intensely as Boyd had stared at the boy’s phone. “You’re the one who said I looked like eight different kinds of shit.”

 

“Yeah, when you were ready to pass out, and even then you were unfairly attractive. It’s bad enough you’re a prince and richer than my entire extended family combined. You have to go and be pretty, too. The least you could do for my ego is be ugly and stupid. Two more friend points subtracted!”

 

“Because of an accident of birth?” he laughed, finally letting his eyes travel to Stiles. The boy was flushed, his cheeks blotched unevenly with red; his teeth were worrying his bottom lip, his thumb tapping an erratic rhythm against the steering wheel. “I never would have taken you for an elitist. I can’t help what my DNA dictates, nor who gave birth to me.”

 

The boy slouched in his seat, glaring at the road. “Fine. You can keep your two points.”

 

“Thank you,” Derek smiled.

 

“Stupid, pretty, rich boys,” the kid mumbled.

 

Even though Stiles appeared genuinely annoyed, he couldn’t make the smile drop from his face. He thought Derek was handsome. No, more than that, attractive. While it wasn’t something he would ever brag about, he knew it was true. However, it was not a fact any male of his acquaintance had ever felt the need to point out, which meant that Stiles had taken more notice of his pretty face than his other friends had. Or at least it seemed that way to him.

 

“Why are you smiling, you dick?”

 

“Drugs are working,” he replied, though it was about as far from the truth as the north pole was from the south.

 

“Oh, well, good,” he said.

 

“So where are we going?”

 

“The journey is the destination,” Stiles intoned.

 

“Meaning?”

 

“We’re picking a race course, dumbass. You said it needed to be set within the week to have time for mayoral and city council approval and all that crap. So let’s get to deciding,” he declared, pausing only long enough to draw breath before continuing, “I spent way more time than I wanted to this week watching racing videos online to figure out what we’d need. But I think I got it. Some straightaways for speed, some slaloms, a hairpin turn or two, and lots of random turns all through the nicest scenery we can manage. I spent eight hours staring at satellite photos and maps of the city trying to find a course with all that.”

 

“And did you?”

 

“I have five,” Stiles said. “But I don’t know if they’re actually raceable and, you know, good or if they just tick all the boxes.”

 

Derek stared at him a moment. “Five?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You designed five courses inside a week?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“When do you sleep?”

 

“Some days I don’t.”

 

He could see that. He hadn’t known Stiles long, but it seemed that he had a tendency to throw himself wholeheartedly into whatever was most important to him at that given moment. He, like Talia and King Derek before her, lived with a passion. His was more spastic and hyperactive in its approach, giving the appearance of someone who did not care overmuch, but the passion was there. Derek wasn’t above admitting he was more than a little envious; other than racing, which had been a real interest once but had grown to be more of an escape, he had only ever been truly passionate about one thing -- one person -- and it had not ended well. He had been terrified of pursuing anything since. Seven years being afraid to love is a hell of a long time.

 

“We’re getting to the start of course one,” Stiles said, dragging Derek back to the present.

 

He studied the terrain. They were in the old city center. The harbor was to the right; where homely fishing vessels had once spent the off season in relatively quiet waters there were now luxury sailboats and sleek wooden speedboats. Opposite the gleaming blue waters was the cathedral built over the course of a hundred years and spanning two styles of architecture. Each were tourist favorites. He could imagine the cars laid out in their starting grid, the Mediterranean on one side and glorious cathedral on the other. The photographs would be breathtaking.

 

The straight gave way to a gentle turn right, hugging the curve of the harbor. It was easy for him to visualize the racers jockeying for position into that corner, the cars faster off the start drawing further ahead as those left behind had to slow or risk crashing.

 

Stiles maneuvered the Jeep through a neighborhood of shops and apartments almost as old as the city itself. Over the centuries, the buildings had been expanded until there was barely two centimeters between any of them, giving the entire expanse the appearance of a single mass of construction; their owners had taken pains to individualize their property, painting what was theirs in bright colors until it all resembled a mosaic. From there, Stiles turned onto the main boulevard, striped by the shade of the tall, slender cypresses, the descendants of saplings imported along with a wealthy bride from Tuscany some six hundred years ago.

 

The Jeep took a turn -- the hairpin, bending back nearly double it was so tight and sharp -- onto a steep road that traveled up along a thick stone and concrete retaining wall the Romans had made when leveling the ground for their initial settlement. He knew that road; it circled the palace, which is what Stiles was now doing. Derek watched his home as they drove past, imagining how it would look in six months’ time when draped in the national colors.

 

“So far this is perfect,” Derek told him.

 

“Not done yet,” Stiles insisted. “You don’t get to just pick the first one and call it close enough. I have five. So you’ll see all five.”

 

“Okay.” He tried to shrug and found it was not a good plan, so he just studied the course Stiles was dictating and tried to picture it from inside the cockpit of his car. It really was perfect.

 

“And we’re coming to the finish line now,” the kid said.

 

“It was perfect. Let’s go with that one.”

 

“Stop that,” Stiles whined. “You’re the one who said how hard it was to design a course. I refuse to believe I got it right on my first try. Let’s go again. Course two.”

 

Derek gestured for the boy to get on with it. While he wasn’t exactly comfortable strapped into the passenger seat of the Jeep, he was in no hurry to have their Sunday excursion come to an end. If Stiles wanted to spend the rest of the day driving, then Derek was more than willing. It meant that much more time in his company, but, really, the first course was everything he would want in a race and would want to show off about his city.

 

“Starting line now,” Stiles said.

 

The course, like the previous one, ticked all the appropriate boxes and featured a number of beautiful vistas of Beacon Hills. However, it just didn’t have as impressive a feel when it came to visual impact.

 

“It was okay. First one was better.”

 

“Course three!” Stiles cried, gripping the steering wheel a bit tighter.

 

Derek couldn’t help but be impressed by his dedication. While the courses included some of the same stretches of road -- a given in a city as small as theirs -- they each were unique. He could create an entire racing series with what Stiles had devised, not just a single stop on a pan-European circuit. Derek had half a mind to give the kid’s name to the Formula Racing governing body; they could use someone like him.

 

“Now, I have to apologize in advance,” Stiles said.

 

“What for?”

 

“I made course five on Friday. Well before your act of stupidity,” the boy said, his voice heavy with worry. “We’ll sort of be revisiting the scene of the crime.”

 

Derek really didn’t like the idea of being seen close to the site of his wreck, especially looking as he did, but so far Stiles had been adamant that they had to view each of his options. “No, it’s fine. You made five. We’ll drive each one.”

 

“Four is enough.” The effort it took for him to say those three words was obvious.

 

“No. You made five,” he insisted.

 

“Well, if you’re sure.” The boy couldn’t quite manage to hide his pleased smile in his shoulder. “Okay. Course five.”

 

The final course did not disappoint. It carried them onto the cliff overlooking the entire city -- one of the hills that had given Beacon Hills its name -- and harbor before turning toward the forest that bordered it to the north. That’s where the drive became considerably less pleasant. Police cars lined the inside of the sharp turn where Derek had overcorrected and gone spinning off the road. Several uniformed men milled around with guns on their hips and notebooks in their hands. Stiles slowed as they approached, cursed when one man, his skin tanned and hair sun-bleached, walked toward them seemingly without fear of being hit.

 

“Apologizing again,” Stiles groaned. “Do me a favor? Don’t talk.”

 

The Jeep came to a stop with the police officer standing next to the driver’s window.

 

“Why am I not surprised to find you out here?” the officer questioned.

 

“I’m just taking a drive,” Stiles replied in a tone that was far too casual for Derek’s liking. He had wondered how often the kid broke the law, and now it seemed that answer was quite often.

 

“Son, you don’t need to piggyback on every single one of my investigations. Believe it or not, we do actually know what we’re doing.”

 

“Come on, Dad, you know I can’t look away when something like this happens.”

 

“Dad?” Derek repeated before he could stop himself.

 

The officer turned his eyes on him, studying him with obvious suspicion. “Awful lot of bruises you got there, son. Mind telling me where you got them? And what your name is?”

 

“Miguel,” Stiles answered for him. “This is my buddy Miguel. He had too much to drink and got into a fight with that set of stairs down by the harbor. You know the ones.”

 

Officer Stilinski nodded. “I’m familiar with them.”

 

“Well, you remember what an asshole they are. They broke my arm,” he reminded his father, his eyes darting to Derek as he repeated, “They broke my arm. Never even apologized, the jerks.”

 

“Surprised you didn’t sue them,” Derek said.

 

“Oh, I thought about it, but stairs and I had a chat. We were friends for a while. I thought they’d mended their ways,” he sighed. “Well, I think what they did to your pretty face is the last straw. Stairs and I are through. Stairs are clearly still an asshole.”

 

“Seriously, Stiles, you can't be here,” the boy's father insisted. “This is highest priority right now.”

 

“At least tell me what's going on,” he pleaded.

 

The man drew in a long breath, probably calming his temper. “Stolen property was found in the vicinity.”

 

Stiles sat up taller in his seat, craning to see over the police cars. “What sort of property? Why so much police presence?”

 

Derek wouldn't have thought this kid had quite so much guile in him. His father was certainly fooled. “Not your business. You aren't on my police force.”

 

“Not yet,” he grinned. “You could always deputize me.”

 

“I think you have more important things to focus on right now,” Stilinski replied, leveling his son with a look that spoke volumes. Unfortunately for Derek, it spoke in a foreign tongue he couldn’t understand. “So you and your friend are going to leave now and not come back. Officers are going to be stationed on site until the wreck is removed.”

 

“Yeah, ok-- Wait, did you say wreck? Like a car wreck? Like a stolen car was wrecked? Was there any evidence -- fingerprints, fibers, hair?”

 

“Stiles.” The man’s voice was heavy with warning.

 

“The body of whoever stole the car?” the kid suggested. He was acting far too excited. His father was sure to realize it was all a ploy.

 

“Shut up and get the hell out of here before I arrest you for being a pain in my ass,” Stilinski ordered, pointing for him to keep driving.

 

“I’m pretty sure that’s not actually in the--”

 

“Just go!”

 

Stiles grumbled a complaint but did as he was told, maneuvering carefully around his father and the line of police cars toward the clear road beyond. As he did, Derek tried to make out the shape of the car he had crashed into the tree line. He remembered it had been a sleek red Maserati, door ajar and keys in the ignition; its owner so forgetful or confident that he or she felt secure in leaving it that vulnerable. Now it was a charred black hulk of bent metal.

 

“One lucky asshole,” Stiles said again.

 

“Apparently,” he agreed.


	8. The Nature of Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek tries not to let secrets slip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found this quote while hunting for a title. I liked it so much, I just had to share it:  
> "All secrets become deep. All secrets become dark. That's in the nature of secrets." - Cory Doctorow

8: The Nature of Secrets

Maintaining focus was becoming more difficult. Images of that wrecked car kept filling his mind. He couldn’t stop picturing himself in it, broken and bloody as he had been that morning when Stiles came to his aid. The kid was made of surprisingly stout stuff if he was able to make split-second decisions when faced with such things. Derek knew he couldn’t have done it, couldn’t have made anything remotely resembling a good choice if he had been the one called to such a scene.

 

It wasn’t idle speculation. It was a true and verified fact. When he had returned from school to find his house on fire, he had panicked, tried to run into the flames, tried to flee the scene, and finally had just crumpled to the lawn and cried.

 

“Dude, you in there?”

 

Derek blinked away the memory of his worst decision and looked to the boy beside him. “What?”

 

“Think your meds are wearing off,” the kid said. “You’re looking a little rough around the edges.”

 

“Still attractive, though, right?” He smiled, but it felt forced.

 

If Stiles noticed, he didn’t say anything. “Let’s break for lunch.”

 

Truthfully, the idea of food made him sick, but he didn’t want his time with Stiles to be cut short. So he nodded and tried not to think about either the wreck or the fire while they drove. The road twisted and wove through the outer edges of Beacon Hills. It would make an ideal addition to a race course, Derek agreed, but he wasn’t able to verbalize the thought with his jaw clamped against the pain.

 

Stiles brought the Jeep to a stop near the eastern gate of the city. Like the ones at the palace, this gate bore the crest of his family, though the ironwork itself was far older than their rule; the gate and wall in which it was mounted had been built during the Franco-Spanish War to protect the city from the French. It was a narrow passage that had been guarded by men and cannons day and night for the twenty years of that conflict. Those warlike days were long gone, yet guards still stood by the gate, not as protectors but as part of the tourist attraction it had become. Stiles parked some distance away.

 

“Are we sightseeing?” Derek questioned.

 

“No, the best pizza you will ever have is in that little hole in the wall.” He pointed to a stone cottage set back from the road. Without Stiles drawing attention to it, he likely never would have noticed the place.

 

Getting out of the Jeep turned out to be nearly as arduous a task as getting out of bed had been. He’d grown stiff in the hours they’d spent sitting, which made his movements slower, more ungainly. Stiles was by his side in a heartbeat, arm around Derek's waist and a shoulder under his arm. He knew what they must look like, but the boy didn’t shy away from the glances they were getting; Derek was simply too tired and in too much pain to care.

 

Stiles lowered him onto a bench outside the little restaurant and ran inside. Without the boy and the drive to distract him, he was realizing just how much pain was running through his body. Everything hurt, especially his head. He just wanted to sleep. Dropping his forehead onto the table, he let the late autumn sun warm his back and the foreign babble of the tourists sitting at the next table fill his ears.

 

“I’m pretty sure those people are talking about us,” Stiles commented when he sat down opposite him, his knees hitting Derek’s under the table.

 

“They are,” he said into the worn wood.

 

“Do they recognize you?”

 

“No, they’re saying we’re a cute couple.”

 

Silence met his translation of the conversation, and he started to wonder what was going on in Stiles’s head, if he was panicking with the knowledge that someone had mistaken them for gay. Surely a boy who dressed as he did and swore his undying love for a woman like Lydia Martin would balk at such a misconception. Derek dragged his head off the table to look at the boy. He certainly looked contemplative and paler than usual.

 

“Don’t worry,” he assured him. “No one would mistake you for being gay.”

 

“Oh, yeah, no, it’s fine,” Stiles replied hurriedly. “Food will be out in a minute.”

 

“Great.” He dropped his head back onto the table. “Why didn’t we bring my drugs?”

 

“I did,” the kid said, rattling the bottle next to his ear before setting it down.

 

“You are absolutely my best friend.”

 

“See, way better than Archduke Dicklicking.”

 

Derek took a moment to swallow down two pills, remembering that four hours earlier Stiles had touched his lips when putting the medicine into his mouth. That contact had given him a distraction from the pain, but the memory of it wasn’t strong enough this time around. He focused instead on the feel of the boy’s legs bumping his under the table, on the boy’s comment, on wondering where he had drawn such an opinion of a man he likely never met.

 

“I’ve only met Deucalion a handful of times at state functions,” Derek commented.

 

“Lucky you,” Stiles muttered.

 

“Have you met him?”

 

His face took on the appearance of someone who had swallowed a rancid lemon as he said, “More times than I’d care to think about.”

 

He found that odd. Deucalion spent the majority of his time on the Air Force base just outside the city, where, last he had heard, the man was base commander. Admittedly, Commodore Deucalion was often in the papers. He was by all accounts a boastful and ambitious man. He gathered talented officers around him by force of personality and with promises of further career advancement. Hardly the stuff worthy of a teenager’s attention. Trying to sort it out made his skull throb, and he admitted as much.

 

“Any time spent thinking about Archduke Dicklicking it too much time,” Stiles declared. “Better to think about something else.”

 

“Like what you used to bribe Boyd?”

 

“That is a much better alternative,” the boy agreed. “What are your ideas?”

 

“Maybe the location of your stash of illicit drugs or pirated movies.”

 

“An interesting thought, but not even close.”

 

Derek eyed him, wondering what the son of a police officer and with apparent ties to an Air Force aristocrat would have to offer a man like Boyd. He knew what he would want from the kid, but that was not something he was about to voice.

 

“Lydia Martin’s phone number?”

 

“Damn, so close you could almost taste it,” the kid grinned.

 

“Someone else’s phone number, then. It’s not yours is it?”

 

A few splotches of pink rose on his cheeks. “No, Boyd doesn’t swing that way.”

 

“So who do you know that he’s got the hots for?”

 

“Erica Reyes. Beautiful, blonde, feisty.” Stiles offered a ridiculous waggle of his eyebrows at the description. “Been into her since they both started in the Beta Program at the palace.”

 

“Boyd’s a Beta?” Derek said. “How old is he?”

 

He shrugged. “I dunno. Nineteen maybe.”

 

The guard was so massive and no-nonsense, Derek never would have suspected him of being part of his mother’s Beta Program. Most of the teenagers in that program were scrawny and obviously neglected; he distinctly recalled one boy named Isaac who spent the first year looking like a beaten dog, flinching at the slightest noise. That Boyd was one of those underprivileged kids his mother brought into their home never would have crossed his mind. He wondered who else might be a Beta without him realizing it.

 

“And Erica?” he asked.

 

“Works in the kitchen. Safest place for an epileptic.”

 

Derek nodded his agreement, his confusion growing. “How do you know all this?”

 

“I might have access to the program’s online database,” he said casually.

 

“Is that legal?”

 

“I cannot answer that question without my lawyer present.”

 

“That’s a ‘no’,” he muttered. “Are there any other illegal activities you get up to that I need to know about?”

 

His face reconfigured itself into one of deep contemplation. “Probably best that a member of the ruling family not know about what I get up to in my off hours.”

 

Derek scoffed. “Not like I’m going to be King or anything.”

 

“I will not be the one to lead the country’s golden boy astray,” the boy insisted with a very firm shake of his head. “No, sir. Not I.”

 

He was too slow in hiding his discomfort at those words, and Stiles noticed.

 

“Is that the drugs not working fast enough? Or has someone else already lead you astray?” His eyes were fixed on Derek's, delving too deep. “Seriously, you can tell me.”

 

“I…” he hesitated, knowing the boy's opinion of him would surely change for the worse if he told him the truth. “Food is here.”

 

“What? Oh.” Stiles frowned, disappointment written across his face.

 

The steaming pizza was delivered to their table, ending any further conversation for the better part of an hour while they ate. Whenever Stiles looked at him, he could see the question he wanted to ask. Derek wanted to tell him, not just about the fire and his spectacularly poor choice at seventeen, but also about the way his heart beat faster when he thought about him, about how he looked forward to seeing the boy’s face, about how much he liked him even though he knew he shouldn't. So he kept his mouth closed and said nothing at all.

 

When the silence finally broke, it was clear that something has changed. The way Stiles spoke bordered on formal. “If you're ready.”

 

“Stiles.” He hesitated again and saw how much it hurt him. “My family went to a lot of trouble to bury certain things. I… I don't want to undo all that effort.”

 

“So you don't trust me.”

 

“No, that's not it at all,” he insisted. “I wouldn't have called you last night if I didn't know you could keep my secret.”

 

“And yet.”

 

“This,” he paused, wishing he was more like Laura; she could spin a speech out of nothing. “This isn’t just about me. There are other people… important people…”

 

Stiles watched as he stammered and struggled. “Fine. One day, you’ll tell me, and I will be disappointed that your secret is so lame after all this build up.”

 

He managed a wan smile, knowing that when that day did come Stiles truly would be disappointed. He would be disappointed in Derek for the choices he had made, the people he had put in danger, the woman he had been foolish enough to love. “Are you taking me home now?”

 

“What? No, why would I do that?”

 

“You’re annoyed with me,” he pointed out. “And we’ve driven all your courses.”

 

“Annoyed, yes, that’s true. But I do not agree with you on the driving being done thing. See, you decided you liked three of the five options, but I think you might have just liked them better than the previous ones. I don’t mean you liked them better because they’re actually better. I mean your opinion was slanted towards them because the others weren’t as good.”

 

“My head hurts too much to even try to understand that logic.”

 

“We’re going to drive them again in a different order,” he finally said. “The three you like best first, so that you can’t be swayed in favor of one just because the previous one wasn’t as good.” He wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist and hauled him off the bench, which the foreign tourists thought was adorable. Derek was inclined to agree.

 

“They’re talking about us again, aren’t they?” Stiles questioned.

 

“Yes, they are.”

 

The boy offered a cheeky grin in their direction.

 

“Stop that,” Derek complained. “Just get in the damn Jeep.”

 

“You’re a crabby boyfriend. See if I buy you flowers for Valentine’s Day.”

 

His face gave nothing away even as his heart hurled itself against his ribcage. “Ass.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must say, Sterek is a terribly addictive fandom once you start writing it. I now have three (THREE!!) more Sterek fics started in my Google docs with plans for a fourth. Seriously, and I thought MCU was bad.


	9. Modern Marvel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek performs a color study and, thankfully, does not block an unknown number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is texting in this chapter. If the italicizing isn't enough to mark them as text conversations, let me know, and I will make them bold or something. I'm not a fan of bolding text. It's distracting when I read, but if it gets the job done...

9: Modern Marvel

It was a translucent sort of brown, rich but lacking the creamy opacity of chocolate. He swirled it in his glass, watching the light play off it. That was it. That was the color of Stiles’s eye. Whiskey.

 

He had spent the week trying to find their likeness. Coffee was too dark on its own, too opaque once milk came into play. Tea was the same; the addition of lemon did lighten it, but it was a bit too close to red. The tannic acid, that’s what turned it that shade. So he turned to alcohol, for it seemed the nearest equivalent to the feeling Stiles gave him. 

 

No beer managed to come close. Cognac, like tea, was too red. Brown rums verged too close to green in his eyes. Bourbons came nearer, but seemed too pale. It was in whiskey that he found the nearest similarity of color and clarity. The brown was deep and translucent with just enough golden undertone to shine on its own. Yes, whiskey. That was the color of his eyes. 

 

“What are you doing?” 

 

He downed the finger of liquor in his glass before Cora could catch him studying it further. “Just thinking.”

 

“Thinking? About a glass of whiskey? For an hour? While smiling?” she questioned. 

 

“So?”

 

“So you have problems.” 

 

“As do we all,” he commented. 

 

She watched him for a moment, her mouth turned down in a frown that was far too natural on her young face. After that brief consideration, she shook her head and left him standing by the dining room fire. 

 

“Derek,” his mother called. “I think we need to have a talk.”

 

His heart, so full and fluttering with thoughts of Stiles, sunk into his stomach. “What about?”

 

“Your injuries.”

 

“Just had a bit too much to drink at that gala,” he insisted. “Misstepped on the stairs on my way in. Deaton patched me up. I’ll be fine by May, don’t worry.”

 

She watched him, her mouth turned down just as Cora’s had. “You’ve been drinking a bit more than is healthy lately. Especially given the medications Alan has you taking.”

 

“Think this was my last one,” he said, lifting the empty whiskey glass. It was true. Now that he had the color of the boy’s eyes, he didn’t need to pursue it further. Now the color of the boy’s lips, that was the new mystery. Which shade of pink were they? It varied based on his mood, that much he knew. So many colors to find. It was a shame the calendar had only just turned to December. The roses wouldn’t be in bloom until March at the earliest. 

 

“Derek, are you all right?”

 

“Hm? Oh, fine. Just a color study.” He smiled. “I’m thinking of taking up art again.”

 

“It’s good to have something you’re passionate about,” she agreed. “I just worry that you might take it too far after locking yourself away so long.”

 

It was his turn to frown. Was that what this was? The gate had finally been opened, allowing an overpowering flood of affection for the first time in seven years, an obsession that had been focused on the first available thing. He didn’t think so, but then he hadn’t thought much about his own feelings in quite some time. What he had felt at seventeen was hardly worth using for a comparative study, but it was the only time he had ever thought himself in love. Maybe his mother was right. Maybe this warmth he was feeling was simply due to the novelty of the feeling. With more time, perhaps he would feel the same about other, more appropriate recipients or perhaps this feeling would level out into something less all-consuming. 

 

“I’ll be fine. I’ve learned my lesson,” he assured his mother. 

 

“All things in moderation, Derek.”

 

She watched him a moment longer before retiring for the night. His father had already left for bed after decemating Laura’s ranks; her king was still in check on the board nearly empty of her black pieces by the window. Laura and Cora retired not long after, leaving Derek alone with the fire and whiskey the color of Stiles’s eyes. 

 

He wanted his mother to be right as much as he wanted her to be wholly mistaken. The last thing he desired was to be like  _ her _ , but, the more he thought about it, the more that seemed to be the case. He had been only seventeen when she came into his life; she twenty-one. Now here he was, twenty-four and lusting after a boy who was likely only sixteen. It was disturbing and wrong, but he couldn’t prevent it. He liked Stiles. He wanted Stiles. Even though every part of him told him it was unimaginably wrong, he couldn’t make himself stop.

 

Pushing himself away from the mantle, he made his way up to his rooms. He’d travelled this route so many times since Sunday morning, but he still imagined Stiles by his side as he walked the corridors, through his reception room, his dressing room, and into his bedroom. 

 

The lounge was precisely where Stiles had left it. He could have asked an able-bodied member of staff to shift it back into place, but he had ordered them to leave it be. He had told them it was because of his injuries, that he needed it there for lies he couldn’t even remember now. Really, he just liked to imagine Stiles there keeping watch over him, imagine the possibility of him lying there again. 

 

His phone chimed, drawing his attention. 

 

He scowled at the text on the screen.  _ Still moping, loser? _

 

He considered blocking the obviously wrong number, but his fingers were typing out a reply.  _ Who is this? _

 

The responses came like a barrage:

_ You didn’t even save my number in your contacts?  _

_ One more friend point subtracted!  _

_ You can praise my genius all you like, I’m not giving you that point back _

_ I’m extremely disappointed in you right now _

_ Dickest of dick moves _

_ Not exaggerating _

 

A smile pulled at his mouth, one he tried not to transfer into his words.  _ Dear god, you text as spastically as you talk.   _

 

_ Dick _

_ Are we on for tomorrow? _

_ Big plans _

_ They involve you _

_ If you’re too busy, I might have to take away another point _

_ Your score is dangerously low right now FYI _

 

_ You’re in luck. I have no plans.  _ It was the truth. His schedule for Sunday was wide open. Stiles didn’t need to know that he made a point of keeping it that way. He had moved three calendar items to far less convenient days just to keep his Sunday clear. 

 

_ Cool _

_ See you tomorrow _

_ Sleep good _

 

_ I’ll need to if I’m going to keep up with you. Don’t they make medicine for your level of hyperactivity? _

 

_ I’m on it _

_ You do not want to meet me when I’ve forgotten my Adderall _

_ Can’t focus _

_ Can’t stop moving _

_ Mood swings like whoa _

 

_ Wait. This is you on or off the Adderall? _

 

_ Dick.  _

 

_ Go to sleep, Stiles.  _

 

_ No, one more thing! _

 

His screen filled with a photo of Stiles’ grinning face. He studied the eyes. Yes, he had been right about the whiskey. 

_ To personalize my contact photo _

_ I will check it when I see you tomorrow _

_ My face better be on your phone _

_ With my saved number _

_ Under the title ‘My New Best Friend’ _

_ Maybe you should let me do it for you  _

_ You’ll just fuck it up _

 

_ Good night, Stiles _

 

_ Good night, Prince Derek the Mud-Stuck _

 

_ Not Mud-Stuck. Now go to bed or you’ll fall asleep during your ‘big plans’. _

 

_ Fine _

_ You win _

_ Big plans trump poking your royal grumpiness _

_ Sleep good _

_ See you tomorrow _

_ :) _

 

He smiled at the screen as if those two keystrokes were the boy’s real face. He smiled that he would be seeing that face the next day. He smiled to know the boy had made plans that involved him. He smiled that he had saved Derek’s phone number, that he could call or text him whenever the whim struck him, and that Derek could do the same. Because they were friends.

 

He dropped onto the mattress, trying to imagine what the boy had planned for their Sunday together. He hoped nothing overly strenuous. A week had seen most of his injuries well on their way to healing. The smaller cuts were all but gone. The bruises had already shifted from purple into a nauseating green. His ribs still brought him to tears if he overexerted himself, but they, too, would heal. It was the concussion that was proving most troublesome. It left him dizzy and confused more often than he cared to admit. He was sleeping more than he had ever been permitted to save for when he caught pneumonia at the age of ten. 

 

_ Don’t forget I’m still injured from that fight with the stairs _ , he reminded the boy.

 

_ As if I could forget what they did to you _

_ Those bastards _

_ Don’t worry _

_ I planned for your dainty disposition _

_ This will absolutely be inside your limits _

_ We’ll save the skydiving for January _

 

_ I’m putting my foot down when it comes to skydiving. Even if you could get me to fly -- which you cannot -- I would never jump from a perfectly good airplane. _

 

_ … Waaaaaiiiiit ... _

_ Are you telling me you’re afraid to fly? _

_ Seriously? _

_ You’re a prince _

 

_ What does that have to do with an irrational fear of flying? _

 

_ You’re a PRINCE _

_ You’re like a diplomat _

_ Always on the move to other countries and shit _

_ Meeting dignitaries _

_ Kissing hands _

_ Shaking babies _

_ That means GOING to those other countries _

_ How the hell do you get to America if you’re not flying?! _

 

_ On a boat, genius. _

 

_ You cross the Atlantic on a BOAT?????? _

_ How the hell long does that take? _

 

_ Two or three weeks. Depends on weather conditions and the boat in question. _

 

_ Weeks? _

_ WEEKS?! _

_ WTF is wrong with you!?! _

_ You know there’s a higher risk of a boat capsizing than there is of an airplane dropping out of the sky, right? _

 

_ Stiles, just stop. You’re not going to change my mind. _

 

_ No _

_ That makes no sense _

_ You race in a car _

_ A tiny little metal canister on wheels _

_ At 300 km per hour _

_ And you’re afraid to fly in a great, big metal canister with wings _

 

_ Why does it matter? _

 

_ Airplanes are awesome is why it matters!  _

_ I freaking love flying! _

_ You should, too! _

 

He set the phone down for a moment, contemplating the boy’s words, his adamance that Derek needed to love the same thing he did. Rather liking the possibility of where the boy’s motivation was coming from, he typed out a question.  _ What if Lydia were afraid to fly? _

 

_ She’s not _

 

_ But if she told you she was? _

 

_ I would be very sad for her _

_ But it doesn’t matter _

_ She’s not a loser like you _

 

_ And Scott? What if he didn’t fly? _

 

_ But he does fly _

_ He flies just as much as I do _

_ Loves it almost as much _

_ This is lame _

_ Just admit I’m right and airplanes are awesome and you will happily join me in one someday _

 

_ I will agree that airplanes are a marvel of engineering. One I will happily admire with me feet on the ground. _

 

_ Dick _

_ I will break you _

 

“You already have,” he said and turned his phone off. Stiles would probably keep up his flurry of texts well into the night, but Derek still had to sleep if he was going to continue his slow recovery from the concussion. He would also need to sleep if he had any hope of keeping up with the kid the next day. 

 

That night he dreamed that Stiles was a pilot. It was the first time he had ever dreamed of flying without it becoming a horrific nightmare of fireballs and explosive decompression. Perhaps if Stiles were there, a trip in an airplane wouldn’t be out of the question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was up until midnight typing away at what I hope is a hilariously awkward chapter of sex in an upcoming Sterek fic. Current working title: Dangerous Curves & Divine Moves.  
> If anyone is interested in an 'oh my god, Stiles woke up as a girl!' story, well, let me tell you, you are in luck! :)


	10. Provocative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which orientation is discussed and things are awkward... until they are not.

10: Provocative

He heard his name being whispered, low and soft. “Derek.”

 

He felt a hand land lightly on his face, another on his shoulder. The touch was gentle, tentative, almost uncertain. “Derek.”

 

It was Stiles. He knew that voice, knew that touch. It was the same every night. The boy snuck into his rooms, into his bed. Next that hushed whisper would draw out until he was moaning Derek’s name. 

 

“Derek.”

 

There. He was already getting louder. 

 

Fingers dug into his shoulder. 

 

“Derek.” Louder still.

 

“Jesus, get up you dickhead!” 

 

“What?” he groaned, confused by the odd tone this dream had taken. He blinked awake and found the boy’s face centimeters from his own. “What’re you doing here?”

 

“We have plans, remember? They don’t involve you sleeping till noon, you dick,” the kid complained and threw a pillow at his head. “Get up. Get dressed. Maybe deal with that tent you built in your bed.”

 

“Get out, asshole,” Derek cursed, trying to shift to a position that didn’t make his excitement quite so obvious.

 

“Nice to know princes are just like the rest of us in that regard,” Stiles commented, rather too smugly for his liking. “Get on with it. We have places to be.”

 

Derek glared at him as he left the bedroom. He wasn’t sure if his subconscious mind intentionally edited out Stiles’s tendency towards being a jackass, or if there just wasn’t much opportunity for him to be one when his dreams lately focused almost exclusively on them having sex. Given a bit more time, he was certain the Stiles of his dreams would have found a way to snark while buried inside him. 

 

“Still waiting!” Stiles called. “Think naughty, sexy thoughts!” 

 

Derek had no hope of falling back into his dream and letting it reach its usual, very happy conclusion, not with the real Stiles yelling at him through the door. He cursed and threw himself out of bed, rushing through a shower, and out into his reception room where Stiles had helped himself to the better part of Derek’s breakfast. The kid studied him as he chewed. 

 

“For a man who just got off, you do not look happy,” he commented. 

 

“Maybe because I didn’t.”

 

“Not my fault.”

 

“Entirely your fault. What the hell are you doing here this early? How did you even get into the palace this early?” he demanded. 

 

“Someone very kindly put me on the green list last weekend. I can come and go whenever I want.” He grinned. “Thanks for that.”

 

“I’m going to start locking my doors.”

 

“This will probably come as no surprise to you, but I know how to pick a lock.” 

 

“I hate you,” Derek said.

 

“You love me. I’m your new best friend. You said so yourself.”

 

The kid had turned his attention back to his plate as he spoke. He missed the way Derek’s mouth fell open, the way his face flushed a telling red, the way his eyes widened in absolute fear. All because Stiles had spoken one of his most guarded truths, that he loved him. 

 

He forced himself to think about something else, anything else -- baseball statistics, the current exchange rate, the airspeed velocity of a fucking swallow -- to take his mind off those three words. It must have worked. When Stiles looked up from his breakfast, his face showed no indication that Derek looked anything other than normal. 

 

“So are you eating or what?”

 

“Yeah, I’m eating,” he said, taking the pieces of fruit from the platter with his fingers because Stiles had the only fork. His mother would have been horrified to see him like this. “What are your plans for today?”

 

The boy smiled. “I am so not ruining the surprise.”

 

“I really don’t do surprises.”

 

“You do today.” 

 

They ate in silence while Derek glowered. He knew that he was overcompensating, putting up a hostile front to keep Stiles from realizing how close he had some to the truth. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin what they had, to scare the boy away. With such an age gap between them, he had no hope of ever getting what he wanted from Stiles, but he was willing to settle for this friendship instead. 

 

“Dude, you need to cool it with the death stare. I’m sorry I interrupted your solo sexy fun time,” the kid said. “In my defense, you kind of give off this vibe…You know what? Never mind.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“You have a vibe. A sort of loner, ‘I don’t need anyone or anything, not even sex’ kind of vibe. I mean, if there was ever a person I thought would never wake up with a boner, it would’ve been you.” His cheeks were practically on fire they were so red, but, even in the face of his own embarrassment, his mouth was clearly beyond his control. “Seriously, I thought for sure you were like a monk. I watched all your races, hours of them, looking for what goes into a good course; you just stood there ignoring all those pretty umbrella girls in their tiny little skirts. I was starting to think you were gay or something, but you didn’t look at any of the hot drivers, either.”

 

“Exactly how much time did you spend watching me instead of the track?” Derek questioned, heart fluttering traitorously in his chest. 

 

“I can multitask, Derek.”

 

“And I can control my baser impulses when in the presence of cameras broadcasting my image across all of Europe.”

 

Those eyes, the color of which he had spent so many nights contemplating, narrowed as the boy studied him. “Wait, so did you have the hots for the pretty umbrella girls or the other drivers?”

 

He offered the boy a smile. 

 

“Aw, come on!”

 

“Eat,” Derek prompted. “We have big, surprise plans.”

 

“You dick.”

 

“Let’s not talk about my dick.” He might have slid the strawberry onto his tongue a bit more provocatively than he normally would, just to watch the boy blush. He shouldn’t be enjoying this quite so much, and he knew it. There was just something so affirming about Stiles wanting to know whether or not he was gay, as if his response would have some immense impact on his own personal life, as if, maybe, he was testing the waters to find out if there was hope for his own crush. It was a stupid idea, but one that made his chest warm. 

 

“I hate you.”

 

“You love me,” Derek countered with a wicked little smile. “I’m not quite as good as Scott, but I do come with princely benefits.”

 

The boy was still flushed, so Derek had no way of knowing if those three words had the same effect on Stiles as they had on him. He did seem to be stabbing his eggs with a bit more violence than was strictly necessary, but that could also be a result of his embarrassment. 

 

“I’ll behave,” he promised. 

 

“Thank you,” Stiles bit out, clearly still upset. 

 

It was easy to forget that they had only met for a grand total of five days spread across as many weeks; he had already learned so much about the boy, his life, friends, and obsessions. He knew a number of the boy’s quirk’s, like how much he hated silence. All he need do was wait, and Stiles would --

 

“So.”

 

Derek smiled into his cup of coffee. “So?”

 

“So are you ready?”

 

“I can be,” he said. 

 

“Good, then let’s go.” 

 

He downed the last of his coffee and stood, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt and watching the boy’s eyes linger a bit longer than seemed appropriate. That couldn’t be right. Surely, he imagined that. It was his dreams bleeding over into reality, infecting innocent gestures with his own wants. Like the boy’s tongue darting out to lick his lips. That was perfectly normal after eating. There was absolutely nothing strictly sensual about it, and yet. 

 

“Stiles?”

 

At the sound of his name, the boy shot to his feet, hitting the serving tray and sending the coffee service clattering to the floor. He stood straight as a soldier, eyes fixed on the coffee spreading across the hard wood floor. 

 

“Stiles, are you all right?”

 

“Yeah, just had a bit too much Adderall,” he insisted, but Derek wasn’t so sure. 

 

“Look, I’m sorry. I really will behave.”

 

He nodded, a graceless jerk of his head. There was a look on the boy’s face that he didn’t recognize. Stiles’s was so expressive, his features shifting with his slightest thought; he was sure that he’d seen everything that face could show him, but this was new. It held a level of uncertainty, almost fear, that made him uneasy. Perhaps he had gone a bit too far. “Yeah, no. I’m good. I’ll go get a towel.”

 

“Leave it. It’s fine. Cora makes bigger messes than this once a week. Really,” he assured him. “Let’s just go.”

 

It took a moment, but he finally made a step away from the table. “Yeah. Big plans.”

 

“Exactly. Big, secret plans. Only you know where we’re going.”

 

“If you put a little effort into it, I’m sure you could figure it out,” Stiles said. 

 

“Maybe you overestimate my intelligence,” he said, pushing the kid toward the door. “Or maybe your brain doesn’t work like the rest of ours do.”

 

“Counting yourself among the masses now, are you?” 

 

He paused by the door, collecting the shirt he had used as a disguise on their last Sunday drive. The shirt he had borrowed from Stiles. “I thought I was just a dude in a plaid shirt.”

 

It was obvious what name the kid wanted to throw at Derek, but he pointed to the door instead. “Just go.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Derek smiled and lead the way. 

 

His ribs still left him moving slower than he liked, so Stiles kept up with him easily, walking beside him as if it was where he belonged. “Were you planning on giving that back?”

 

“I hadn’t decided yet.” 

 

“That’s my favorite shirt.”

 

“I can see why. It’s soft.” He ran a hand over the sleeve, feeling the worn flannel. 

 

“Dude.”

 

“I’ll give it back,” he promised. “Eventually.”

 

“Stupid, pretty, rich boys,” Stiles muttered. 

 

“Are you going to take another friend point?”

 

“I’m thinking about it. Might just subtract all your friend points.”

 

Derek considered him a moment. “What happens then?”

 

“We would no longer be friends. You would be on par with Jackass Jackson as someone I cannot stand the sight of and have free reign to mock mercilessly,” Stiles declared. 

 

“That sounds pretty close to how you treat me now.”

 

The boy offered a laugh with a touch too much bitterness. “I’ve been mocking you with ample mercy. You have not felt the full force of my unrestrained mockage.” 

 

“I’m shaking with fear.”

 

“Don’t be such a-- Just shut up.”

 

He did as he was told and did not push the boy further. The silence stretched out as they walked, lasting the length of the palace, far longer than he thought the boy capable of going without speaking. He considered taking the initiative, breaking their apparent stalemate, but he worried he would say the wrong thing. Better to let Stiles do it. 

 

Only he didn’t. 

 

Not a word passed between them as they climbed into the Jeep or as they drove. Derek watched the boy fidget incessantly, thumb tapping against the steering wheel, fingers drumming on the gear lever, left heel bouncing restlessly whenever it wasn’t working the clutch pedal. At the same time, his lips moved as if he were speaking. Perhaps he was rehearsing something he was planning to say, or, more likely, reviewing notes for some upcoming exam. Whatever it was, Derek was having a hell of a time keeping calm in the face of it. The boy was a mass of nerves, and it was making him anxious just watching it. 

 

He was on the verge of shouting at him when Stiles finally spoke.

 

“And we’re here,” the kid announced, pulling into a narrow parking space. 

 

Derek studied the building. It was a nondescript structure of brick and stone, like any other on the street. He had likely passed it countless times and paid it no attention at all. The sign above the door was not overly helpful, offering virtually no clue as to what the business within might be. 

 

“What is it?” he questioned. 

 

“You’ll see, and I will win all the friend points for it,” Stiles said with a smile that seemed almost natural. 

 

Derek eyed him and the building with equal suspicion. “It’s not skydiving, is it?”

 

“No, I said I’d save that for when you aren’t so fragile.” The boy was out of the car and at the door to the shop before he could shout at him. 

 

He considered boycotting the trip, crossing his arms and putting his proverbial foot down until Stiles drove him back home, but he didn’t want to lose his one day with him. Even with the awkwardness that had developed between them, he would not be able to go another week without seeing him. 

 

“Fine,” he growled and followed. Once through the door, he could hear the overlapping barks of dogs some distance away, smell the mix of cleaning solution and wet fur that he hadn’t encountered since he was a boy. A smile touched his face as he realized where Stiles had brought him. “I will never doubt you again.”

 

“All the friend points?”

 

“Every last one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone cares, I am just one chapter or two away from finishing Dangerous Curves & Divine Moves. I've decided I like that title and am making it official.


	11. Two Important Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two sets of important questions are asked.

11: Two Important Questions  
Ignoring the looks being directed his way, Derek dropped to the cement floor and let the dogs walk all over him. The animals were curious and probably a little starved for attention, for even the most dedicated employee or volunteer could only provide the dogs with so much of their time when there were such a large number of animals to care for. One dog that seemed more fur than body lay down in his lap and wagged its entire backside in sheer joy. 

“Oh, I think you’ve found your soulmate there, Miguel,” Stiles laughed from behind his phone, no doubt recording a video of Derek grinning like a fool. 

“I might just have,” he agreed, though he wasn’t talking about the dog. “Can we walk them?”

“Yeah,” the kid said. “But just on the sidewalk in front.”

“I’d love to take them to a park. I wish there was one closer.”

“Funny you should mention that.”

It was hard to give him an appropriately reproachful look with dogs trying to lick his face, but he did his best. “Just funny?”

“Well, I was thinking you might consider a dog park as the goal of your charity road race,” he said. “The city doesn’t have a dog park.”

“There’s no dog park? How do we not have a dog park?” Derek questioned. His family might not keep pets, but they loved animals. Cora practically lived at the zoo until she was forced to attend school; she still had plans to be a veterinarian or a zoologist. Talia ran countless fundraisers to benefit the wildlife preserve on the Northern border. 

Stiles watched him as he worked through his disbelief and indignation, not saying anything else to sway his opinion. Finally, Derek decided, “We need a dog park.”

“Soft caramel center. I knew it.”

“What can I say, I’m a sucker for a pair of beautiful brown eyes,” he smiled and looked into the deep, chocolate eyes of the German Shepherd attempting to push her nose under his arm. “See, look at them. Who can say ‘no’ to these?”

“I think you need to take one home with you.”

“My parents wouldn’t allow it.” 

Even as he said it, he began questioning the accuracy of his words. His parents had not forbidden them from ever keeping animals. Their absence just sort of happened as one by one their pets were lost to old age, illness, or, as in the case of Laura’s rabbits, an unfortunate misunderstanding with the new chef. Mr. and Mrs. Tufty’s memorable appearance at dinner was the final straw, and no animals were ever brought into the family again. 

“Are you sure?”

“No, actually, I’m not,” Derek admitted.

Stiles sat down beside him. “So you have two questions you need to think about,” he said with uncharacteristic seriousness. 

“Which are?”

“Is it better to ask for permission or forgiveness?” His smile turned wicked. “And which one are you taking home today?”

“I think we know the answer to both questions.”

“No, actually, question two has me stumped. I’m kind of stuck between old brown eyes here and the wiggliest puppy in the world,” Stiles admitted. “You’ve got enough room. Why not both? In for a penny, in for a pound. Go big or go home. Let’s do this! Oh, hey, if you lose all your friend points and we break up, do I still get visitation rights?”

The snort of laughter was as painful as it was undignified. “Stiles, I don’t think I could break up with you if I tried. You’re the one that keeps coming into my house uninvited, remember?”

“That is true. Okay, I won’t break up with you,” he said. “For the sake of the children.”

“So magnanimous. You were born for the royal life, Stiles.”

“I’m definitely made for the fantastic breakfasts, that much is true. And those satin PJs aren’t bad either. I’m down for more sleepovers, especially if there are dog cuddles involved.”

Derek chose to credit the soft, affectionate animals around him for the warmth flooding his chest, for the way his heart seemed to swell and the smile refused to leave his face. “Who is in charge here? I’m sure there’s a form I need to complete.”

“I’ll go find out.” 

The boy was gone long enough for Derek to rethink his choice. There was much to consider, but the more he thought the more convinced he was that he had ample time and energy to devote to a pet. Cora would certainly be happy to have an animal in the house again. Maybe he should get her one, too. He was just coming to the conclusion that his sister would want to select her own pet -- most likely a cat to suit her disposition -- when Stiles returned. He looked uneasy. 

“So, uh, they take photos with the new pet parents after the adoption,” the boy informed him.

“That’s fine. My bruises are mostly gone.”

“It’s not about how pretty you’ll look in the photo. They’ll put your name and picture on their website,” he insisted as if that would be some massive deterrent. 

“And?”

“You’re okay with that?”

Derek sighed. “Despite what you might think, I’m not actually ashamed of my lot in life. It comes with some rather massive bonuses, not the least of which is being able to leverage my family’s name and position to benefit causes I care about.” He stood and pulled the plaid shirt from his shoulders, shoving it onto the boy’s hands. “Hold onto Miguel for me while I go adopt a dog.”

“Two,” Stiles prompted. “Two dogs. I want this one.” He gestured to the mop of fur that had crawled into Derek’s lap as soon as he sat down; it had taken up residence in Stiles’s with equal enthusiasm and tail-wag. 

“Then why don’t you adopt it?”

He pouted. “I’m away from home most of the day. My dad works long hours and odd shifts, so it would be alone too much. But if you adopted it for me, it would get the royal treatment all the time, have a dog sibling, and I’d still get to see it when I visit you on Sundays. It’s a perfect plan. Two dogs. Please?”

His mind flooded with images of those Sundays to come, of hours spent with Stiles and the dogs -- their dogs -- at the park and at the palace. It was his dreams made all the richer. No amount of disapproval from his parents could possibly dissuade him from making that a reality.

“Alright, two dogs,” Derek agreed.

“Team Sterek for the win!” the boy cried and rubbed his face in the mop’s fur. “I’m gonna give you all the snuggles!”

He couldn’t even bring himself to be jealous, not of the animal that would ensure visits in perpetuity. Well, for as long as the dog lived. 

“How old is that dog?” he questioned. 

“The woman at the counter said they think he’s a year old, so still just a puppy really,” Stiles said. “Why?”

Derek shook his head in reply and made his way to the adoption desk, where the woman -- Amelia her name tag read -- stammered out an awed ‘your grace’ at the end of every sentence. It had been his normal once, people treating him with a deference he didn’t feel he deserved. Stiles’s easy manners had made him forget how awkward most of his encounters outside the palace usually were. Was it any wonder he fell for the kid? He made Derek feel ordinary in the best possible way. 

“You done yet?” he called, making the woman gasp in outrage. 

“Some people have no manners,” she muttered. “I’ll have someone remove him, your grace.”

“No need. He’s with me,” Derek said. 

Stiles appeared at his shoulder, dog still in his arms. “Can I officially re-name him now? I refuse to have a dog named Fido.”

“I had a dog named Fido,” he countered. 

The boy buried a snort of laughter into the animal’s fur. “So not surprised by that.”

“Young man, you ought to address the prince as ‘your grace’. It’s common knowledge and basic respect due to someone of his station,” Amelia scolded in a clipped tone. “Do they not teach you that at school anymore?”

Confusion flit across the boy’s face before his eyes darted to the prince. Derek could see the precise moment that he remembered exactly what the man he so often called a dick was to everyone else in their country. It was comical until his expression shifted from realization to fear. 

“Go wait in the car,” Derek said, hoping he didn’t mistake the suggestion for an order. 

Stiles went, and Derek filled out the forms while the woman apologized repeatedly for the state of the boy’s generation, blaming everything from television to the internet for the decline of basic decency. He ignored her. 

“Oh! The photograph, your grace,” Amelia prompted, eagerly producing a battered digital camera from under the counter. It was an obnoxious lime green thing, which seemed to suit her acidic personality when it came to Stiles or possibly the youth of Faron as a whole. 

“One moment, please,” he said, taking his phone from his pocket and sending a text to Stiles. The dogs were as much his as they were Derek’s, and he wanted the adoption photograph to show that. 

Perhaps he also wanted evidence of their relationship, such as it was. 

“You rang, your grace?” the boy said with a slight bow.

“Shut up and get in the photo,” he said. 

“Oh, sure, you get to talk as rude as you want,” he muttered in a low voice the woman couldn’t hear.

“Smile, your grace. And you, young man.” She held a camera to her face, waving them into frame. “Wonderful, your grace. My Louisa will have a real treat putting that on the website.”

The expectant look on her face was one he recognized from more public events than he could count. That was the look of someone that wanted to talk, usually at great length, and about something Derek had absolutely no interest in. If they did not make their escape now, it would be an hour of ‘my Louisa’s new baby’ this and ‘the state of the roads in my neighborhood’ that. 

“Well, thank you. I look forward to adopting with you again,” he said quickly, handing a leash to Stiles so he could shake the woman’s hand with a very firm and pointed ‘goodbye’. The boy was clever enough to see what was happening and took the dogs out to the Jeep, giving Derek all the reason he could need to leave as well. 

He did not run out the door, though he wanted to. He walked with the dignity of his station, offering his best regal nod and gracious wave to the woman as she stood transfixed in the doorway. 

“It would be hilarious if my car chose not to start right now,” Stiles commented as he turned the key in the ignition. 

“Not even funny. I’m getting this thing a new engine next chance I get.”

“Aw, you planning on taking that many drives with me?” 

“Once again, reminding you that you’re the one the keeps showing up at my house with plans to drive places,” Derek said, offering the boy a lukewarm glare. 

Stiles silently worried his lip a moment. “Am I supposed to call you ‘your grace’?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to?”

It made him sick to see the anxiety in the boy’s eyes. “No.”

“Oh. Okay. I mean I would if you wanted me to.”

“I don’t. I get it enough from everyone else when I’m out here.” He considered ending the comment there, for Stiles really did not need to know anything more than that. Yet he found his mouth opening and more truth slipping out, “That’s why I like you. You treat me as if I were the same as anybody else.”

Stiles didn’t answer immediately, just directed the Jeep away from the animal shelter and toward the park at city center. He was quiet too long, making Derek think that he had said something wrong, given too much away. “You are, you know,” he finally said. “I mean not counting the excessively large house, richness, and prettiness. You say stupid shit and do stupid shit just like everyone else does.”

“This is a well-documented fact,” he agreed. 

“Cool. So I’ll only call you that when in the company of small minded idiots.”

“Or when you’re pissed at me,” Derek added. 

“You deserved it that time. You were being an absolute dick.” 

As the familiar epithet left his mouth, the boy’s jaw tightened and splotches of red began to rise on his cheek. In the thrill of adoption, Derek had nearly forgotten their talk from earlier in the morning. Seeing Stiles’s reaction brought the memory of it back. While he truly enjoyed seeing how affected the boy was, Derek did not want to risk the boy growing uncomfortable to the point of ending their friendship, so he forced a scoffing laugh from his mouth and told the kid he was an ass. 

It’s what they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think the dogs' names should be? I have an idea, but I'm curious what you might come up with.


	12. Perfect Fit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which panic and dinner are had.

12: Perfect Fit  
The screams that met their return were a far more subdued response than Derek had anticipated. Cora, of course, screamed with all the glee he had been expecting, throwing herself to the carpet to hug each dog in turn. His mother’s scream was not one of equal delight.

“Derek, what is this?” Talia demanded as soon as she recovered from her shock.

“I adopted a dog,” he said as if it were something he had done every Sunday of his life and she really ought to expect it by now.

“I count two,” his mother observed.

“That one belongs to Stiles.”

“What’s a stiles?”

“That would be me, your majesty,” Stiles said, the honorific rolling off his tongue without a hint of sarcasm. There was a brief moment of awkwardness that reminded Derek of when they had first met as the boy stood with his hand hovering somewhere near a salute. It passed with Stiles dipping into a shallow but respectful bow. Despite the baggy pants and plaid shirt, he looked the picture of a courtly gentleman. If only Amelia could see him now.

Laura saved them from his mother’s questing eye. “Lydia Martin has delegated Stiles as her intermediary in regards to the race for the bicentennial,” she summarized. “I understand Derek selected the FSPCA as the charity the race would benefit. I suppose you’ve been making arrangements and setting an example?”

“Exactly,” Derek agreed without pause.

“You seem to have gotten rather carried away while setting said example,” Talia commented, eyeing both the dogs and the boy. Whatever she was thinking made no appearance on her face, but he was sure there was some level of disapproval of each. “You made a commitment, Derek. I’m sure you are aware of what that entails.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Very well. Take them to your rooms before your sister tries to abduct them,” she directed. “Dinner will be in twenty minutes. I expect you both down promptly.”

Stiles looked between his friend and the Queen, stammering, “Oh, I wasn’t planning on--”

“Twenty minutes,” she said again. Her tone denied any refusal.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He followed Derek from the sitting room, his face pale and eyes huge. “I’m so screwed.”

“You’ll be fine,” Derek assured him.

“No, I will not be fine. I will be screwed,” he said again. “How the hell am I supposed to act? I never got ‘dinner with the Queen’ lessons. What the hell am I supposed to say?”

“As little as possible.”

“Oh, thank you. Very helpful.”

He laughed. “Stiles, you’ll be fine. My mother only puts on the regal act when she meets people for the first time. Laura knows who you are. Just be yourself, and you’ll be fine.”

“I always hated when people said that. ‘Just be yourself’. Myself is a sarcastic, spastic, hyperactive idiot that doesn’t know when to shut up. I’m going to end up in the dungeon before the first course is even on the table.”

“It’s a palace not a castle. We don’t have a dungeon.”

“Oh, okay. Prison, then. So much better.”

He sighed, putting his hands on the boy’s shoulders in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. “Breathe, Stiles.”

“No, I’m hoping I’ll pass out.”

“Can you handle alcohol?” he asked. It was a bad idea, especially given how young the kid really was, but if he wouldn’t calm down on his own then the only thing Derek could think to do was get some wine in his system.

“Are you kidding me? You want me to meet your parents drunk?”

“Technically, you’ve already met my parents.”

“You know what I mean. I have only ever had a sit down dinner with Scott’s parents, and that was after like two years of friendship. I think I’d already been told to call his mom ‘Melissa’ by that point,” he rambled in a shaking voice. “I really doubt you want me calling your mom ‘Talia’. Oh shit, I just said it out loud. I’m going to slip and say it at dinner. I’m screwed.”

“Drink,” he ordered. “Slowly.”

Stiles took the glass in his hands, fingers brushing across Derek’s and leaving fire in their wake. “Thanks.” He sipped the wine, breathing out in slow, deliberate breaths. “Still screwed.”

Any further assurances he might have made were lost in the deep, resonant note that reverberated through the halls.

“The crack of doom. That is just what I need.” Stiles groaned.

“It’s the dressing gong. It means we have fifteen minutes. Do you want to borrow something to wear?”

He looked down at his clothes, comfortable, casual, and coated in dog hair from their time at the shelter and subsequent trip to the park. “Probably a good idea.”

“In the armoire,” he said.

There was no point in gesturing the appropriate direction; Stiles already knew the way. The kid scrambled through the dressing room door, shouting, “Do I need a tie?”

“No.”

“Is that ‘no’ because it’s not that formal or ‘no’ because it’s so formal I should be wearing a tuxedo?” Stiles shouted.

“Dear god, Stiles, how do you even function?” Derek demanded. He stalled at the door, mind going blank and mouth dry. Stiles was naked save for his underwear. He had seen it before, but that was a week ago immediately following a severe blow to the head. He had convinced himself that the muscles he had seen were fictitious, but there they were, defined, tight, like a coiled snake.

“Bad time for a concussion headache, dude,” he whined. “I’m legitimately about to have a panic attack over this. Derek!”

“What?”

“Help me, you asshole!”

He forced his feet to move to the armoire and not to the boy; his hands to touch the hangers and not the boy; his eyes to look at the clothes and not the boy. Stiles was absolutely right, they were so screwed.

“Aren’t you changing?” Stiles asked, dragging him back to the moment.

“What?”

“You’re covered in dog hair,” the kid pointed out.

“Yeah, changing,” he agreed, pulling the shirt over his head without thinking to move into the privacy of his bedroom.

“Hey, bruises are looking a million times better.”

Derek hated that Stiles was able to look at his naked chest without being affected in the slightest. It was unfair when his own brain couldn’t hold a thought when he saw Stiles in such a state. Or perhaps it was the counterbalance to all those things the kid had complained about. Yes, Derek was a prince, wealthy, and handsome, but his brain ceased all functions when he caught a glimpse of the boy's skin. His tragic flaw was Stiles. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Better.”

“Okay, you keep getting naked. I’m going to go finish that wine.”

“Pour me one,” he said, hearing the edge of panic in his own voice.

They were so screwed. Actually, he was certain Stiles would somehow survive the evening with minimal damage. Derek was worried for himself. He had seen the boy all but naked. There was no possible way he would be able to keep himself from thinking about that fact with him sitting across the table, with him wearing Derek’s clothes, looking to him for help when the conversation became strained.

“God damn it, why can’t you be normal?” he cursed at himself and threw on the first acceptable set of clothes he saw.

“Aw, look at you,” Stiles cooed. “Dressed up like a proper little prince.”

“I hate you.” He stole the glass from the boy’s hands and downed the contents in a single, breathless chug.

“Whoa! Slow it down there,” he warned. “At least one of us should be sober.”

“You’re it, then.”

“Fuck that noise,” Stiles said, taking the bottle from him before he could pour another glass for himself. “Get your little princely ass moving. Go!”

He glared and growled and considered punching him but did as he was told. It was becoming painfully obvious that he would do anything Stiles asked of him. Because he was a fucking idiot. “Hate you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not gonna like me more if we’re both drunk. What the hell are you even worried about?” the kid demanded. “They’re your parents. They have no choice but to love you. Me? I’m just some random guy off the street. They can kick me out and make sure I’m never allowed back in.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked.

“What if they think I’m not good enough to hang out with you?”

“You’re panicking not because you’re about to sit down for dinner with the ruler of the country but because she might not let you come back and play with me again?” He couldn’t keep the breath of laughter in.

“Shut up, asshole,” he groaned. “I like hanging out with you, okay? So sorry my not liking the idea of losing you as a friend isn’t on your list of thing I can reasonably freak out about.”

He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. It was the only way he could keep the smile from taking over his entire face. It took far too long to reign in his joy, but he finally managed to speak the assurance Stiles clearly needed. “As long as the bicentennial race needs planning, you’ll be allowed in. Don’t worry.”

“And after that?”

“By then I’m sure they’ll be used to your idiosyncrasies.”

“You think so?”

“Positive,” he said. “Now, get your shit together. You’re about to dine with royalty.”

He snorted. “Eaten with you enough not to be impressed by that anymore.”

“Ass,” Derek muttered and shoved the boy around the corner, letting him stumble into the presence of his family. “Mother, Father, Laura, Cora, you’ve all met Stiles, right?”

The dinner that followed was, amazingly, not the most awkward he had ever been forced to sit through. All things taken into consideration, it was one of the more pleasant family dinners they’d had in recent memory. The presence of a guest meant everyone actually paid attention to the people sitting around the table with them instead of reading through drafts of letters or legislation under consideration. Laura did not enter into an argument with their mother over the terms of joining the Eurozone. Their father didn’t hide behind his evening paper making passive-aggressive comments. Cora was still Cora.

Similarly, Stiles was no less himself than he ever was. He did manage to keep from calling Derek any names, though he could always tell when one was on the tip of the boy's tongue. He also kept conversation going with his usual hyperactive non-sequiturs that made sense only to him. A font of arbitrary information, he easily found supporting arguments for either side of the unending debate between Laura and the King regarding an overhaul of the country's tax structure.

“Stiles, do you play chess?” his father asked, seemingly out of nowhere, making the rest of the table groan.

“I do, actually,” the kid said. All honorifics and titles had fallen away within the first five minutes of dinner.

“Excellent. I’m getting tired of having to play against myself for lack of competition. Join me in the sitting room. Grab a brandy on the way.” The man stood, offered his stomach a pat, and left the table.

Stiles’s eyes showed panic for the first time since entering the dining room. “Am I supposed to let him win?”

“You can try,” Cora scoffed.

“No, seriously. What do I do?” He looked to Derek, Laura, Cora, even the Queen.

“Were you not listening, Stiles?” Talia asked. “Wesley misses being challenged. Were I you, I would go out of my way to make sure the man loses.” She smiled and followed her husband through the doors to the sitting room.

“Is that allowed?” he questioned.

“Queen’s orders. You have to do it now,” Derek said. “Come on, he probably has the board set up already.”

“Why don’t you play?”

He shrugged. “Never liked it very much. Having to plan so many steps ahead without knowing what the board would look like after just two, I was never very good at that.”

“What? That’s the best part. All the variations, the surprises.”

“Just knock that man down a rung or two. He’s been insufferable about his chess prowess for as long as any of us have been playing,” Laura whispered. “I hate losing, but I can’t beat him to save my life.”

“Or my life,” Derek said.

“You are not still mad about that!”

“All you had to do was win one game, and I could have kept going to a normal school instead of Devenford Prep. One game, Laura. Normal life for me. Did you do it? No.”

She slapped him on the head and stomped away.

“Which school did you go to before you went to Devenford?” Stiles asked.

“Beacon Hills High.”

He considered that a moment. “That’s my school.”

“Yeah, I didn’t attend very long. Father worried I would be bullied once the other kids realized who I was.”

Stiles nodded, face still pulled down in contemplation. “I better go. Your dad’s waiting.”

Derek took a seat on the couch, one that afforded him the best view of the chess table. Laura joined him and apparently for the same reason; her book remained closed in her lap, her eyes fixed on the game that had already started.

“Father’s never looked so delighted by an opening move,” he commented.

His sister gave his arm a gentle nudge. “Father’s never been so delighted by anyone we’ve brought home. You found a good one.”

“What?”

“Everyone likes him, even Cora,” she said, voice low so their conversation wouldn’t travel. “You kiss him yet?”

“What are you talking about?” he demanded, knowing it was pointless to deny anything when his face felt as hot as it did. He had to be blushing.

She smiled. “Stop being an idiot, Derek. I’ve known you all your life. I remember the crush you had on my violin tutor.”

“I thought he was a girl.”

“Liar.”

“Why are you bringing that up? It was nearly twenty years ago.”

“I’m just saying that no one would be shocked if you came out now,” she said. “We know you. And we remember what you used to be like.”

“Trusting. Stupid.”

“Happy. You have been so miserable for so long, Derek. Stiles is the first person I have seen to make you smile like you used to. I know you’ve always blamed yourself for what Ka--”

“Do not say that name,” he warned.

“Fine, but I will say this: What that woman did is not your fault. You deserve to be happy, and Stiles makes you happy.”

“Yeah, you should jump on that train before it leaves the station,” Cora chimed in. “Seriously, those hands.”

“Oh, shut up, the both of you.”

“He’s so cute when he blushes.” Laura patted his flaming cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the halfway point, so it seems as good a time as any to mention that I'm writing without a Beta/editor. If you see any issues, please let me know so I can get them fixed.  
> Also, I write to get better at writing. Constructive criticism is ALWAYS welcome. I can't get better if you don't tell me how!  
> No comments=smug me assuming I'm perfect... we don't want that, now do we?


	13. Chicken, Waffles & Sausage in Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a king's cheating has unforeseen consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you notice the total chapter count just went up by one? No? You did now! Final edits are pretty much done, and I elected to break a pivotal chapter in two, thus extending the story to 30 chapters instead of 29. :)

13: Chicken, Waffles & Sausage in Bed  
“How are things progressing?” 

Derek looked up at the question even though it wasn’t directed at him. His mother stood over Wesley’s chair, surveying the board between him and Stiles. She was no better at the game than any of her children, but they had all been playing against the man long enough to recognize when a game was won. Her face gave nothing away unlike the King’s; the man was deeply concerned about the state of play and the number of pieces he had lost. Stiles’s relaxed face held no such concerns, and he answered with his usual honesty. 

“Kicking the King’s ass, ma’am.”

The room stilled as all eyes fell to the boy. His parents hated foul language. It was the one thing their children were forbidden to do, and the only thing he had ever heard them refer to as ‘common’ in his entire life. 

“Stiles, perhaps you are unaware, but we do not permit coarse language in this house,” the King said, his voice stern. He paused, breathing a disappointed sigh. It was the kind of sigh that always preceded a punishment. “However, I must concur. You are seriously kicking my ass.” He moved his remaining rook and immediately groaned.

“Checkmate!” Stiles declared, eyes finding Derek as he grinned.

“You will come again soon for another game,” his father said. It was an invitation so wholehearted it sounded like a command. 

“Next Sunday?” 

“You, young man, are on.” He held out a hand across the board and offered Stiles a firm and well-earned handshake. “Now, I’m off to bed. Early meeting in the morning.”

Stiles stood and offered the man a salute as he had done on their first encounter outside Derek’s rooms. It seemed odd, even for him, but the King returned it. His departure set the tone and soon everyone was retiring, leaving only the two of them. 

“I should go. I have somewhere to be tomorrow morning,” the kid said, stumbling as he moved toward the door. Derek caught him, turning his face away at the heavy smell of alcohol rolling off him.

“How much brandy did you have?”

His shoulders rose in a sloppy shrug. “I dunno. However much your dad gave me. I thought it would be rude to say ‘no’. Really wanted him to like me. Do you think he liked me? He asked me back. Actually, he kind of told me to come back, like not coming wasn’t an option. I think he liked me. Do you think--”

“Stiles, he refilled your tumbler at least three times,” Derek interrupted. “It’s his way of cheating when he thinks there’s a chance he might lose.”

“Sneaky old bastard,” Stiles smiled lazily. “I like him. Do you think he liked me?”

“You are in no state to drive home. I’ll call a driver for you.”

“No, I need my Jeep to get there in the morning.”

Derek sighed at his obstinance. “I suppose canceling your plans is out of the question?”

His face was the picture of terror. “No. Not gonna happen.”

While there were alternative options to get Stiles home safely and to school in the morning, any one of them would have inconvenienced an excessive number of palace staff members, and not one of those plans would allow him to have the boy at his breakfast table for a second day. “You can stay here. I’m sure we have a guest suite made up.”

“Nah, I’ll just crash with you again.”

His heart was not the only part of him to swell with the idea. “No, once was even too much for palace protocol.”

A plaintive whine escaped his mouth. “But the dogs will be with you. I want to snuggle Waffles.”

“When did you name the dog Waffles?”

“Just now.”

“You cannot pick names when you’re drunk,” he insisted, wrapping an arm around the kid’s waist to help steady him. 

“I love waffles. I love that dog. Makes total sense,” he said, leaning into Derek. “Now if you just name yours Chicken, we’ll have Chicken and Waffles. It would be perfect and hilarious.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“Your face is ridiculous.”

“My face is ridiculously attractive according to you,” he reminded him. 

“Yeah, you’re like man-pretty,” his head lolling to the side and fingers coming up to trail along Derek’s jaw. “It’s not fair. That much pretty should be distributed evenly so the rest of us have a shot.” 

“You make it sound as if you’re deformed.”

“I’m definitely not man-pretty,” he insisted.

“You’re plenty pretty, Stiles.”

“You mean that? That’s so sweet,” he leaned further into Derek’s side. His ribs were still too sore for this, but he didn’t want to give up the contact. “Hey, so if you were gay, would you find me attractive?”

“What?”

“Not saying you’re gay, but if you were,” he said, words so slurred it was hard to understand him. 

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay.” It was a stall tactic. If he could distract him, divert the line of their conversation long enough for them to reach his rooms, he could leave the boy in the bathroom; Stiles was so drunk, he would forget the question by the time he was done vomiting.

“I know that. One of my friends is gay -- Danny, he’s like the nicest guy on the planet. I asked him once if he thought I was attractive, but he didn’t answer me. Maybe he thought I was making fun of him. Would you?”

“Make fun of your friend?” Derek asked. 

“No. Would you find me attractive if you were gay?” he repeated that hateful question more slowly, enunciating each word with as much precision as his intoxicated tongue would allow. “Well? I’m not deformed, right? Plenty pretty.”

“Yes, Stiles, if I were gay, I would find you attractive,” he sighed. 

“Cool. Same here.”

He pushed the door to his rooms open and practically carried the boy through to his dressing room. He placed him on the only seat and pulled a set of pajamas from the armoire. “Change, Stiles.”

His reply was lost in a yawn.

“Stiles! Do not fall asleep until you’ve changed,” he ordered. “Are you all right on your own?”

“Fine.” He offered a dismissive wave of his hand. 

Derek was sure he shouldn’t believe him, but he left for the bathroom anyway. He stared at himself in the mirror, hating that Stiles found him attractive. It was one more reason why he shouldn’t care about the eight years’ difference in age separating them. Those eight years were reason enough. It was a solid and immovable reason for him to keep his distance. He shouldn’t be trying to pick away at it.

That’s what he kept telling himself. Fat lot of good it did him.

He shoved away from the sink and changed, stalking out into his rooms. Stiles was not in the dressing room. He wasn’t in the reception room, either.

“Shit,” he muttered, knowing there was only one other place for him to have gone.

“Stiles, did you fall asleep?”

Praying that the boy had laid himself down on the lounge, Derek entered his bedroom. He could make out the shape of Chicken and Waffles on his bed. Beside them, Stiles. His face soft with sleep and chest rising in slow, steady breathes. It was probably the calmest he had ever seen him. He looked so beautiful, Derek couldn’t bring himself to wake him. Instead, he took a pillow and blanket from the bed and dropped onto the lounge, wondering how the boy had managed to steal even an hour of sleep on the thing. It was stiff and lumpy, somehow managing to hit on every one of his remaining bruises. 

“Don’t even bother,” Stiles mumbled. “That thing sucks. Bed’s better.” 

The boy gave the mattress an inviting pat, one Derek was both eager and loathed to accept. How could he explain that he didn’t trust himself to behave if he slept in the bed with him, that he was afraid of where his hands would go in the night? He consciously fought against wanting Stiles, but in his dreams the boy was his. Every night they claimed one another.

“Bed,” the boy prompted. 

“I’m fine,” he insisted a bit too loudly. 

At the sound of his voice, the dogs scrambled off the bed; Chicken pawed at him while Waffles leapt up and walked across his ribs gingerly, attempting to find space on the narrow lounge. He was sure they would give up eventually, but the pain they were causing was not one he could endure that long. 

“Bed,” Stiles repeated sounding both sleepy and smug.

“Yeah, fine,” he growled and threw himself to his feet, stomping around the bed. “Stay on your side. I kick.” It was a lie. One Stiles didn’t hear as he had already fallen asleep again. 

Chicken and Waffles wiggled their way between him and the thing he most desired, for which Derek was willing to pardon their betrayal of forcing him into the bed. An immovable wall of canines would certainly keep him from molesting the boy in the night. He rolled onto his undamaged side and watched Stiles as he slept, wishing there was a way to make himself younger, to make the boy older, to reduce the number of years between them somehow. It was an impossible wish.

His dreams that night held more of the usual. With each passing Sunday those dreams became richer the more time he spent in the boy’s presence; there were now dogs at their feet as Stiles taught him chess in the evening before retiring to their rooms, where the boy would strip him of his clothes and kiss every inch of him, would make him moan out his name, would make Derek his.

A quiet moan answered the one he made in his dreams, waking Derek enough to realize that the body in his arms was definitely not Chicken. He started awake and bit down hard on his lip to stop himself groaning as the boy pushed himself against his erection. There was no possible way it would go unnoticed if he were to wake. Hoping he could get out of bed without rousing either Stiles or the dogs, he unhooked his legs from Stiles’s and moved his arms from around the boy. Stiles whined and rolled closer. Derek absolutely did not notice how hard the kid was. 

No, he did not. 

Not until he was alone in the shower with his clothes on the floor and the door securely locked. Only then did he think about it. He pushed into the ring of his fingers, remembering the way Stiles felt in his arms and against his cock, the way he imagined the boy’s mouth would taste. 

“Dude!”

Derek ripped his hand off himself, certain he’d been caught. 

“I need to pee!” Stiles yelled and knocked on the door. “And maybe throw up!”

“Yeah, I’ll be right out,” he called, rushing himself to completion. He was so close, it didn’t take long.

Stiles pushed past him the moment the door was unlocked, the toilet his sole focus. Derek hurried in the opposite direction, trying not to look at him, horrified by his inability to control himself.

“Traitors,” he glared at the dogs. “You were meant to stop that.”

“What was that?” Stiles asked, coming into the room and studying him. “Don’t you look wet.”

The dressing gown was clinging to him everywhere it touched. He was sure he looked ridiculous, sure he looked guilty. “Didn’t have a lot of time to dry off, now did I? Do us all a favor? Next time, don’t fall for my father’s cheap tricks.”

“Happily,” he groaned. “Hungover is not a fun way to start a Monday. Oh, shit, what time is it?”

“Seven,” Derek said. 

That single word was enough to set the boy in motion. He sprinted to the dressing room, scrambling out of the borrowed pajamas and into his clothes from the previous day.   
“I have to go.”

“I’m sure there’s time--”

“No time!” he insisted, grabbing a slice of toast off the breakfast tray. “I will text you. Treat Waffles right.”

Derek groaned. “Of course you remember that name.”

“Best dog name ever. Waffles for the win!” he declared as he made his way to the door. “I expect him to answer to that name by next Sunday.” 

“Good luck with that,” he snorted. 

“Yesterday was awesome. See you next week.” 

And he was gone.

The door slammed closed with a sound like a gunshot hitting him right in the chest. Stiles knew. He had to. He must have woken the same time Derek did, felt his damned cock against his ass and known what was going on. Maybe he had sorted out what had been going on the entire time. His eagerness to escape was certainly obvious. It was evidence enough for Derek.

“So screwed,” he groaned, falling onto the lounge with his head in his hands. 

Chicken laid her head on his leg and looked up at him with her enormous brown eyes. 

“Don’t try to reassure me,” he told her. “I’m totally screwed.”

He dressed and took the dogs out, walking a slow path around the palace while they ran in merry circles chasing one another. The dog park really was a good idea. He would have loved to take the dogs there with Stiles to watch them play. That part of the dream wouldn’t happen, but he could still make the park a reality. It wasn’t the dogs’ fault that he was damaged to the point of perversion. 

The dogs ran onto the gravel drive of the servants’ entrance and barked in what sounded to Derek like a happy way. He didn’t understand why until he turned the corner of the palace. 

The Jeep was still there, parked exactly where it had been the previous day. The boy hadn’t left after all.

He walked quicker to reach it. As he approached, his hope of seeing Stiles again diminished. Something was wrong. The windshield was an intricate spiderweb of cracks. Fluid was dripping from beneath the engine compartment. He stopped some distance away when he stepped on a heavy, battered wrench. The only way it could be so many meters from the vehicle was if it had been thrown there by its owner in a fit of anger and frustration. Stiles had been so adamant that he needed the Jeep to get to school, but he didn’t see the boy anywhere nearby.

“We arranged for a driver to take him, sir,” Boyd informed him. “I assumed that was the appropriate thing to do.”

“Yes, he had somewhere to be,” Derek agreed.

“Very good, sir,” the man said.

Derek looked at him, remembering what Stiles had told him. This man had barely earned that moniker; he was nineteen at most. He knew better than to ask what had made his face so set toward stony apathy at such a young age. None of the Betas had stable homes or happy childhoods. 

“Boyd, did you attend school with Stiles?”

“Yes, sir,” the guard answered. 

He considered asking for how long. What year Stiles had been when Boyd had graduated. Truthfully, though he was afraid to ask. He didn’t want actual, concrete proof of how young the boy was. As it was, he had only his own speculation; there was hope, however slim, that he might be wrong. 

“Was that all, sir?”

Derek considered the Jeep. “Do we have anyone in the motor pool capable of fixing that?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Let’s make that happen, shall we? Before next Sunday.”

“Of course, sir.”

He smiled and started back toward the house, pausing as he remembered the bribe. “Oh, did you call Erica?”

His mouth tipped up ever so slightly at the corners. “Of course, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is chicken & waffles a strictly southern thing? I had never heard of that combination when I lived up north.


	14. Something to Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek takes the first steps toward growing as a person.

14: Something to Do  
From his seat by the window, Derek watched the Jeep being hauled onto the tow truck and removed. He hated having it out of his sight, but he knew it would be put back soon and in far better condition. Arrangements had been made. The Jeep would be ready for Sunday. Guaranteed. It helped that the work was being done in his name. No one wanted to disappoint the prince. 

“Did you tell him?” Laura asked.

“I want it to be a surprise. Believe it or not, he actually likes those.”

“You should tell him. He’ll worry that it was taken to a wrecking yard,” she insisted. 

She was probably right, but he couldn’t keep from his mind the vision of Stiles wearing a look of joy upon seeing his Jeep in perfect working order. Telling him via text or even calling him wouldn’t provide him with that same gratification. Besides, he wasn’t entirely sure the boy wanted to talk to him outside their Sundays, not after seeing the way he ran to escape his company. No, he needed the grand gesture and surprise of the Jeep being repaired to help Stiles forget his indiscretion. 

“I might,” he said. 

Her face spoke to her level of disapproval, but she said no more and continued on toward whatever meetings she had that day. Derek sighed. It was only Monday.

Normally, he would have just enough on his schedule to keep himself occupied. Between practice races, actual races, and the diplomatic lunch and dinner meetings his secretary arranged in whatever country he happened to be in that week, he usually had a full day ahead of him. With his injuries keeping him out of the cockpit, however, there could be no racing, no practice racing, and therefore no dull as dirt meetings filled with platitudes and pleasantries designed simply to cement existing ties.

In a way, he was indebted to that night of stupidity. Had he not stolen the car and crashed, he likely never would have grown so close to Stiles in such a short time. That had been just eight days ago. Their entire brief relationship, such as it was, had only existed for a total of six weeks, of which they spent barely seven days in one another’s actual company. On the standard royal interpersonal timeline, that might have earned the boy an invitation to a brief afternoon tea. But that night acted as a catalyst, propelling their friendship forward at an accelerated rate. That night had been a godsend when it came to Stiles. However, that night ruined the rest of his life. 

“What do you have planned today?” Cora asked. 

“Absolutely nothing,” he sighed. 

“Sounds fun.”

“Not really. There’s nothing I can actually do yet. Not without passing out anyway.”

“You’ll heal,” she promised. “And when you do, you can climb back down into your boring, old rut.”

His mouth pulled in a scowl at her comment. “Are you calling me mud-stuck?”

“No, I’m calling you rut-stuck, but I guess it’s the same. Honestly, Derek, you did the same thing all day, every day, every week for years. How did you not get bored?” The question was not rhetorical. She stared at him expectantly, wanting an answer. 

“I was bored,” he admitted. “But at least I was bored while doing something.”

“Seems like you just need to find something else to do.”

He smiled at her. “When did you get so smart?”

“Probably around the time you got so dumb,” she said, giving his ribs a gentle poke. “Go find something to do.” 

Find something to do. It sounded so simple, so easy. 

It wasn’t. 

He tried reading the stack of documents left for him, but they brought on a debilitating headache. Even the ones that were mildly interesting. Attempting to read his emails was worse, the light from the screen stabbed him in the eyes until he nearly threw up. Giving up and moping seemed a very real option, but his attempt at lying angstily on the couch was interrupted by his secretary. The man arrived promptly at ten o’clock every morning, though he rarely had a reason to. 

“Good morning, sir,” he greeted. Somehow he never sounded disingenuous. 

“Good morning, Daniel,” he sighed. 

“How are we feeling today?”

“Concussed.”

The man paused and studied him in a way that would have been intolerable if done by someone else, but he had come to know Daniel as one of the kindest men he’d ever met. There didn’t appear to be a calculating bone in his entire body, which was saying rather a lot given the man’s breadth and height. “Difficulty focusing? Headaches? Trouble reading and viewing screens?”

“All of the above.”

“I can read your memos to you, sir,” he suggested.

“Worth a try,” he agreed, removing his feet from the couch and pointing to the papers he had thrown, rather childishly, across the room. 

Daniel reorganized the documents as he walked, reading the memorandum. “This is in regards to your charity race.”

“Anything I need to worry about?”

“The proposed course outline is going before the city council next Thursday, they respectfully request your presence.”

“So they can laugh in my face or shake my hand?”

The man offered a dimpled smile. “They didn’t see fit to mention that in the memo, I’m afraid.”

“No consideration for my busy schedule,” he complained. 

“The meeting starts at ten o’clock. I might have to move your morning nap to later that day,” Daniel agreed. “There’s the potential that it might overlap with your afternoon nap, sir. I think you’ll run the risk of overexerting yourself trying to sleep for two hours in a single stretch.”

Derek snorted. “Quite right, Daniel. Cancel the morning nap entirely.”

“Truthfully, sir, the studies I’ve read indicate more sleep will help you recover from the concussion faster.”

He paused in consideration of the man who had been his secretary for just over a year. “Who told you to research concussions?”

“No one, sir. It seemed wise to know what to expect.”

He nodded his approval at such a level of forethought. “I don’t suppose you found anything to help bruised ribs heal faster?”

“Just time, sir.”

“Damn,” he sighed. “Back to the memo: What should we do about Thursday?”

Daniel smiled at the word ‘we’. Having worked with Derek for thirteen months, the man knew he was not one to refer to himself with the royal plural, that when the prince said ‘we’ it was because he was including his secretary in the plan. “Well, I would prepare some arguments in favor of the proposed route, the less common sites it would draw tourist attention to, increased income to the area businesses in the form of hotel stays, restaurant meals, et cetera. I can draw up a rough estimate based on similar events held elsewhere.”

“Do that. Although, I don’t think I could memorize that level of math to save my life right now,” warned Derek.

“I can generate a chart that even the most moronic committee member could read,” he insisted. “All you would need to do it point to it, sir.”

“Better make sure it’s simple enough for me to read, too,” he suggested, forcing Daniel to hide his laugh inside a very conveniently timed cough. 

“Of course, sir.”

“Do you think it likely the council would deny the proposed route?” He studied the map of Stiles's race, remembering how much effort the boy had put into its creation. That level of work deserved recognition and approval, not the censure of some closed-minded imbecile who couldn't see the benefits it would bring their city.

“Not from any flaw in the route, no,” Daniel answered hesitantly.

Derek understood what he was so reluctant to express, that the problem lay not with the course but with the person proposing it. There were some -- a very vocal few -- in the city government that wanted public rule, a parliament, elections. What they truly wanted was power. They had risen as high as they could in business and civil service, but to such people there was never enough authority to be had. Political and social sciences, as well as psychology, were part of every Hale's education from the moment they could grasp such abstract concepts as friend and enemy, often before they could even read the words; Derek might never wear the crown, but he was well versed in underlying motivations of his country’s people, and he knew that those shouting loudest for a voice in public discourse were likely those least deserving to be heard, that those who truly had the country's best interests at heart worked toward that goal without any higher ambitions.

The anti-royalists on the council would undermine his family's decisions wherever they could. They would prevent the race just to be contrary, just to have a win.

“What do we know about them?” he asked.

“Going to the mattresses, sir?” Daniel questioned.

“Only if I have to. That course is perfect, and I won't let them tear it apart for some pointless political posturing. Why?” He looked to his secretary. “What would you do?”

Daniel was quiet a moment. “Your family's opponents claim to speak for the entire country. They'll argue that the people don't want the race in the city, so if I were you I would take the petition directly to the people. Make a website with the proposed route. Provide the economic benefits, the charity you are donating the money to, all the same information you’ll take before the council next week. Give them a place to write directly to the council. Carbon copies can be emailed to you, so you will see what’s being said and use it in the meeting. I can guarantee the positive feedback would drown out whatever noise the naysayers might make about it.”

“That is genius. Who could make that kind of site?”

“I can,” he replied with neither pride nor modesty. It was simply fact. “I can have it operational by the end of the day, spread the link around to the news stations and websites, have the PR team arrange some radio and newspaper advertisements. Have Raeken and Coach drop a comment about it in interviews when asked why you’ve stepped away from the team temporarily.”

He marveled at the man’s quick mind. Derek was stuck at the starting line, and Daniel was already halfway to the win. “Will it really work?”

“I would place money on it,” Daniel affirmed. A smile bordering on the devious rose on his face, and he continued, “And if it doesn’t, then I’ll hack into their private servers and find out the names of everyone they’re taking bribes from and where their mistresses live.”

Derek laughed, wincing and clutching his ribs. “I think you’ll need an alternate plan for Monroe. I doubt she has a mistress.”

“But I can guarantee she’s taking bribes from someone, sir.”

“I will pretend I didn’t hear that part of the plan.”

“What part?” 

“Good man, Daniel.”

He lifted another paper with unnecessary flourish, signaling the return to business. “This memorandum is from her majesty the Queen. As part of entering the European Union, Faron would be required to join its military strength with the EU’s. Her Majesty will be scheduling inspections with an EU representative beginning with the Army base at the western border. She is currently proposing mid-January to allow you more time to heal and be presentable for the base commanders and the press.” 

“So thoughtful of her,” he commented. 

“Presumably this would also double as a way for her majesty to run an inventory before the May bicentennial parades,” reasoned the man. “Quite a clever use of her and your time.”

Derek was inclined to agree. Without a parliament to spread the work of government, his mother was responsible for their entire country. She could delegate lesser tasks to Laura, her heir, and to his father, who was king in name only, but not enough to put any real, sizeable dents in the volume of work. What that meant was doubling up on engagements wherever possible. Talia almost never sat down with just one person, save for audiences lasting five minutes at most. The rest of the time she had a clever secretary arrange her meetings with people who could help one another; often all the Queen need do was make the introduction, broach the topic at hand, and leave the guests to come to their own conclusion and arrangements. It was masterful to watch.

“What does my mother's schedule look like this week?”

A moment passed while Daniel typed and swiped at his tablet. “The usual. Breakfast with her aides, meetings, lunch meetings, more meetings, dinner, phone meetings, bed. London Thursday to coordinate with the PM. Paris and Berlin Friday. Back to Faron on Saturday.” He held the tablet for Derek to marvel at the impossible number of tasks his mother managed to squeeze into a single day.

He saw a sliver of unclaimed time that afternoon. “Fit me in there. I would like to speak with my mother in private.”

Daniel tapped the thin white rectangle, typing in the details and saving the meeting. “Done, sir.”

“Good, let's see if I can't find something to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered cutting the next chapter or two for reasons of it not being strictly essential to the overall plot, but I felt them necessary. Derek is kind of a non-entity, and that needed to change. What do you think?
> 
> In other news: The unpleasant symptoms of a spider bite sent me home from work yesterday, and after a 2-hour nap and some anti-nausea meds, I got Dangerous Curves & Diving Moves finished. Still some edits to be done, but be on the lookout for an 'oh snap, Stiles is a girl now!' story. :) (I still like spiders... just not on me)


	15. Element of Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which surprises suck and fears are calmed.

15: Element of Surprise

To say that he was too busy to notice that Stiles hadn't texted him would have been a lie. He was busy, busier than he had ever been. Beginning Monday afternoon, Derek started shadowing his mother whenever she and her guests would allow it. He was sitting in on meetings with her aides about changes to tax structure and improvements to infrastructure, with foreign businessmen and delegates regarding trade deals. It was often more than he could handle considering that he couldn’t even read without getting dizzy, and he usually he fell asleep the minute he returned to his rooms.

On waking, however, the first thing he always did was check his phone. Two days gone without a word from Stiles. It was enough to assure him the boy wanted only bare minimum contact with him after their previous Sunday together.

Derek spent most of the Wednesday morning meeting with the Japanese trade representative staring at his phone, willing the text to arrive. It didn't.

“Just talk to him,” his mother advised.

“Yeah,” he muttered, and, while he hadn't exercised a gram of gray matter listening to any portion of the negotiation, he fell, exhausted, into bed.

As with every time he slept, he dreamed of Stiles. Slightly different than his usual dreams of them living a life together, however, that afternoon he dreamed of Stiles whispering to him, his hands gently turning his body over; clever, elegant fingers trailing along his face, his neck, his chest; lips ghosting over his. He woke, skin tingling and warm as if the touch had been real, aching for the tenderness of it.

Before he could change his mind, he took up his phone and typed out a text.

_We still on for Sunday? I have a surprise for you this time._

He held the phone in his hands, waiting for the reply to come. Hope dimmed with the screen. Stiles didn't answer.

While Stiles had never given the impression that he was glued to his phone, Derek knew he carried the device close, that when he got a text he answered immediately. Politeness, he had said after apologizing for giving the phone any attention at all on one of their Sundays. And now minutes continued to tick past without a response. Further proof that they were friends only on Sundays, only for the bicentennial race. He threw his phone across the room with a curse and was disappointed when it didn’t shatter against the wall. Instead, it landed with a dull thud on the plush carpet. It has been over a decade since he threw a real, proper tantrum; he had thought himself past such things, but he was sorely tempted to throw one now. Instead, he walked the dogs.

The last few days of that week barely registered. His mother flew to London Thursday morning, but he continued to shadow her aides, to sit in on meetings and phone calls, listening to how they dealt with difficult, headstrong people of all nationalities, including their own. He met with Daniel and watched as the website launched, as the visitor count rose with each passing hour, and, while he felt useful and even competent for the first time in his life, all he wanted was to talk to Stiles about it. There was little point in feeling such pride if he had no one to share it with.

Sunday, the Jeep was put back into place. He could see it from the same window, knew it had been set nearly exactly where Stiles had left it. The two men from the motor pool wiped the dull paint, gave it a nod, and walked back toward the garage. Derek didn’t move. He sat and stared down at the vehicle; the work had been done in secret so he could watch the boy’s face when the surprise was revealed. Even though Stiles didn’t want anything to do with him, Derek still intended to see that joy. So he watched as the boy trudged up the drive from the gate, kicking at the gravel, hands in pockets, and shoulders pointed downward in a dejected slope. He watched as the boy stopped, startled to see his Jeep, as if he had thought it lost. He watched him run to it, palm the clear, undamaged windshield, lift the hood and stare down at the pristine engine. The boy threw the door wide and dug inside, arm deep under the driver’s seat.

His heart leapt when he saw him emerge with something small, dark, slim, and rectangular. His phone. Stiles hadn’t been ignoring him.

Even from this distance, he could see the boy pressing buttons and swiping at the screen. He could certainly see him look from the phone to his Jeep and then to the window where Derek was sitting. The smile he wore was beatific and better than he had imagined. He waved his phone in the air and ran toward the entrance.

Derek’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

_All the friend points!!!_

There wasn’t time enough to compose a reply before Stiles came running toward him, the very picture of excitement. He skidded to a stop, panting and still smiling. “Fair warning: I’m gonna hug the shit out of you. You cool with that?”

“It’s fine.” The final word was forced out of him in a wheeze as the boy squeezed his bruised ribs. “Fuck, not that hard. Still hurts.”

“Woose,” the boy laughed, giving him one last squeeze before slapping him on the back and letting go.

Derek missed the warmth of him, though he was glad to be rid of the pressure on his sides. “Good surprise?”

“Dude, that was fucking terrifying! I came by Wednesday to try to fix it, but it was gone. Boyd was being an asshole, and no one else knew a damn thing about it. You’re right, surprises suck. No more surprises.”

“Wednesday? Why didn’t you come see me about it?”

“I did,” he said baldly. “You were asleep like a delicate little princess. Couldn’t wake you up for anything.”

Derek remembered the dream he had that afternoon, how different it had been. He didn’t dare believe the hands he had felt on his body -- the lips he had felt -- had really been there. The painful and platonic hug the boy has just given was proof enough that such tender touches were beyond his young years. He shook off the ache and focused on the figure before him. “I tried texting you, but you must have forgotten your phone.”

“Not my best morning,” Stiles agreed. “I was going to text you from Scott’s, but I didn’t remember your number. So give me your phone.”

As with any request the boy made, Derek complied, holding his phone out for him to take. He snatched it from his fingers and typed rapidly, adding a name and number to his contact list. He read over the kid’s shoulder. “Scott McCall.”

“That’s my brother from another mother,” Stiles said. “If I’m ever that stupid again, you’ll have his number. Scott’s disgustingly in love with this girl, so he is never without his phone. Not ever. It’s a little pathetic how attached to it he is.”

“That works. Do I need to give you Daniel’s number?”

The boy looked at him, face oddly still. “Who’s Daniel? Your boyfriend?”

“My secretary,” he said with an undignified snort.

“Oh, okay. Yeah, good idea.” Derek held out his hand for the boy’s phone, but Stiles shook his head and said, “Just tell me what it is.”

There was no mistaking the furtive glances he threw at Derek. He was hiding something.

He sighed and pretended to give in, telling the boy the phone number while creeping closer. Even with his injuries, he was still fast enough to catch the boy off guard, to steal the phone from his fingers, and study the screen. The new name and number were there under D, not for Daniel but D for Derek’s Not Boyfriend, which was immediately under Derek My Doggy Daddy. He tapped on his name and saw the photo of himself at the animal shelter, smiling as Chicken tried to lick his face off.

“You are ridiculous, you know that?” he laughed and threw the phone back to him. “Doggy Daddy? Really?”

“Oh, shut up,” he grumbled, face flushed clear to his ears. “I bet you didn’t even save my name in your phone yet.”

He held his phone up, showing the photo Stiles had texted to him and his name typed out Stiles Who is Better Than Archduke Dicklicking. “I think you know it is because you just changed your name not three minutes ago.”

“Well, I am better than Archduke Dicklicking. How are people going to know if you don’t tell them?” he demanded.

“Ridiculous,” he laughed. “So what are your big plans for today?”

Stiles looked away, embarrassment written all over his face. “I... I thought you didn’t want me to make any.”

“Why would you think that?”

“My Jeep was gone,” he insisted, hands flying with his growing agitation. “I came, and it was gone, and no one knew where it went, so I thought you’d had it towed. I thought you were tired of dealing with me. I mean you say we’re friends, but we only hang out on Sundays and only for the race. You keep saying I’m the one bothering you, that you’re not inviting me over, so, I mean, I thought that was your not so subtle hint that you didn’t want me coming around anymore.”

If he could have, Derek would have kissed him to assuage his fears. Instead, he used his most patient tone. “Stiles, I want you here. I want to spend more time with you, but you can only spend Sundays with me. And I’m sorry for scaring you; I wanted to see your face when you realized your car had been fixed. It was stupid, but so am I.”

Stiles stood for a moment and stared at him. As always, his face changed as rapidly as his thoughts, flitting through emotions faster than Derek could read them. “You really want to hang out with me?”

“Yes.”

“What if I could get a weeknight off to come hang out with you?” he asked.

“I would like that.”

“So if I just showed up one night without calling, I wouldn’t be interrupting anything?”

There was something more to the question, a subtext. “Are you asking if I have a nightly visitor?”

“A nightly naked visitor,” he clarified. “I mean I was clearly wrong about you not waking up sprung, so maybe I’m wrong about you being a single guy.”

Derek couldn’t help laughing, which only seemed to annoy the kid.

“What?” he demanded. “It’s a totally normal question to be asked. I mean look at you! You’re unfairly man-pretty. I’m absolutely right to assume you’d have somebody warming your bed.”

It was an effort to keep from laughing more, but he managed it. “You’re right,” he agreed. “All perfectly normal questions and assumptions. And you’re also right that I have someone keeping me company at night.”

The boy’s irate face paled. “You do?”

Derek whistled, a single, sharp note, and the response was immediate. Their dogs raced through his door, circling the boy and leaping to get his attention. “I’m pretty sure you’ve met Chicken and Waffles, my personal radiators.”

“You’re a dick,” Stiles complained. “I thought you had a thing going on.”

“No, I have no one but the dogs.”

“That’s not right, you know. You should have someone.”

“One day I might, but not for the moment.”

He stilled as he considered him. “This has something to do with that thing you don’t want to tell me about, doesn’t it?”

“Not something. Everything,” he admitted quietly.

“They must have really fucked you up if you don’t want to talk about it or date anyone else. How long ago was this?”

He sighed. “Stiles, I really don’t want to talk about what happened. It’s not going to make it better. It’s not going to make it go away. It’s just going to make me miserable, and you… Well, you’d likely never look at me the same way again. So, please, just drop it.”

“Fine,” he agreed, though not without obvious effort.

“Do you want to take your Jeep for a drive? Take the dogs to the park?”

He nodded. “Go get Miguel, I’ll take them out.”

Derek obeyed, walking through his rooms to find the plaid shirt he had not yet returned. If he were being completely honest, he had no intention of ever returning it. It was soft, yes, but it was also a piece of Stiles. During the week, when he was lonely and wanted nothing more than to see the boy’s face, he would touch the worn flannel and smile. He knew such things were well inside the realm of creepy, stalker stuff, so when he got into the Jeep he made a point of saying, “Remind me to give your shirt back later.”

“Nah, keep it,” the boy insisted. “I’ve got plenty.”

“You should take it back.”

“But then what would Miguel wear?”

He tried to protest, but Stiles was cheering the noise of his car starting. “Listen to that!”

“Yes, the sounds of reliability. You know the mechanics said it was basically being held together by duct tape and the power of positive thinking. I think in their eyes I earned some kind of manhood badge for risking my life in this thing.”

He chuckled low in throat. “Manhood badge. That sounds dirty.”

“I suspect at your age, everything sounds dirty.”

“Usually because it is.” He offered a smug grin that Derek wished he could see in other, less public, less clothed circumstances. Now that was a manhood badge he would love to help Stiles earn.

“Dammit,” he cursed.

“Got you thinking about sex!”

“Asshole.”

“Oh, thinking about butt sex. That’s even better.” His cheeks grew blotchy with red as he blushed, but he still kept grinning. “Which isn’t to say that butt sex is necessarily better than other kinds of sex. I’ve never had it, though, so I’m limited in my knowledge. How about you? Can you say whether it’s better or not?”

“Stop talking, Stiles.”

The little shit laughed for the entire drive to the park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I ever mentioned my tumblr? I totally have one! [iamtarasoleil.tumblr.com](http://iamtarasoleil.tumblr.com/)


	16. New Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles & Derek's new normal is still more than a prince can cope with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while since I added a song to my not really a playlist.   
> [ A song for Derek growing as a person.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uKEhiXcrW9AKodaline)

16: New Normal  
Stiles was talking in his sleep. 

Correction: Stiles was flirting in his sleep, laughing coyly, kissing some imaginary figure -- most likely Lydia Martin -- and saying how dirty she was. It was a little painful to watch and definitely painful on his arm. The boy had dropped off while watching a movie, leaning his weight against Derek. He had wanted to let him sleep, but, between the nerve pains stabbing him like fine-pointed needles and the ache of the boy dream of Lydia, he absolutely refused to deal with it any longer. 

“Stiles!”

“Hm! What? Didn’t do it!” the boy jerked awake, flailing as he sat up. “Dude, did I miss the end?”

“Again.” 

“Damn it. I am determined to watch this thing all the way through,” he insisted.

“I could just tell you what happens. I’ve seen it twice now thanks to you.”

“No! That’s cheating! That’s like reading the last chapter of a book first. Just no, Derek. I’m going to watch it. We’ll try again.”

“Maybe not on a weeknight,” Derek suggested. “Definitely not tomorrow night.”

“Why? You have company coming?”

He sighed. “Stiles, what’s tomorrow?”

“Wednesday.” His confusion was obvious as was the moment he understood what Derek was really asking. “Oh, the council meeting! That’s Thursday. Have you got your arguments down? Need to rehearse? I’ll play that asshat Monroe.”

“No.”

“What? I could do it.”

“No,” he said again. “The last thing I want is to look at her and think of you. Definitely not the reverse.” 

“Fine, but what can I do? I want to help.”

“Let me sleep?”

“Derek,” he whined. “Let me help.”

Sighing, he shook his head. “There’s nothing for you to do. Everything is prepared. It’s just a matter of showing up and pointing out the obvious in a very polite and dignified tone.”

“Have you met Monroe? She doesn’t really respond well to your sort.”

Derek still couldn’t quite understand how Stiles knew so many high-ranking officials around the city. Archduke Deucalion, Commander Harris, and now Tamora Monroe. Him knowing of Monroe made at least a modicum of sense given his father’s occupation; the woman was a prominent member of the city council, and it was entirely possible they had met at a function or a council planning meeting. 

“What do you know about her?” he asked.

“She’s a small-minded idiot,” Stiles replied. It took an elbow to the ribs and a pointed glare for him to continue, “She used to be a teacher at Beacon Hills High, but from what I understand from the police report I may or may not have stolen from my dad’s office she was attacked on campus. No one was ever charged. Complete lack of evidence.”

“I remember that,” Derek said. “She demanded a private audience with my mother.”

“I take it that meeting didn’t go well?”

“No, it did not. Guards had to be called.”

“That explains kind of a lot, actually,” Stiles muttered before looking at him. “Do you want me to be there? Moral support?”

He wasn’t sure there was a way to express how much he wanted him to be there without it frightening the boy. So he just shook his head, “No, it’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’ll be fine.”

Those beautiful brown eyes narrowed as the boy studied him. “Fine, you’re the prince. You supposedly know what you’re doing.”

Derek scoffed. “Who said that?”

“Every teacher I’ve ever had. I really doubt any of them met you, though, so I think they might possibly have been lying.” 

“Definitely lying. We have no idea what we’re doing. Making everything up as we go.”

“Two hundred years and no beheadings,” the boy said. “I think you’re doing pretty okay.”

“It’s not two hundred years yet, and if Monroe has her way there would probably be at least one beheading before May. We’ll see how things go on Thursday; she might up the count to two beheadings after meeting me.”

“What? A pretty face like yours? She wouldn’t dare. And if she tried anything, she’d have to go through me.”

“Very brave of you taking on a woman who weighs about forty-five kilos. When I think about the tiny, little bruises she might inflict on you, I just swoon,” he commented dryly.

“I’m your knight in baby blue armor. It’s what I do,” he grinned. “I protect your ass.”

He couldn’t help but smile because, even though he was joking, Derek knew he was speaking with absolute sincerity. Stiles would protect him. He would take on the council and Monroe for him. “I think at my age, I ought to be protecting it myself, don’t you?”

“Teamwork, Derek. Teamwork.”

“Fine, okay. Teamwork,” he sighed. “But you don’t need to be there Thursday. Daniel and I have everything well in hand.” 

The boy’s face indicated he didn’t much care for the idea of them working so closely, and Derek might have taken a moment to speculate on the potential jealousy stirring in his friend were he not so tired. It was rather late, which made it odd that Stiles was still there. He nearly always left with the same apology of needing to be places in the morning. Yet here it was going on midnight, and Stiles had not offered his customary excuse. 

“Don’t you have to be somewhere tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the boy said. “I hate having to get up at stupid o’clock in the morning.” He let his head fall back on the couch and whined another complaint, which Derek heard not a word of. The boy’s pale throat was far too distracting. When he jerked his head upright, Derek was certain he had been caught staring, but Stiles just looked at him with hopeful eyes. “Can I crash here?”

He managed to swallow his immediate and overzealous ‘yes!’ instead asking, “Doesn’t your father worry about you?”

“Plenty, but not about my sleeping elsewhere. I spent more nights over at Scott’s house than I did ours growing up,” he admitted. “As long as I text to tell him where I am, he’s happy.”

He paused, watching the boy and understanding a bit slowly the game he was playing. “You already told him you were staying here, didn’t you?”

“I might have suggested it was a possibility.”

“When?”

“When I brought dinner to the station.”

“And how many hours ago was that?”

Stiles shrugged. “Five...ish.”

“Manipulative asshole, that’s what you are,” Derek grumbled and fought to keep from smiling. It was a losing battle when the boy was going out of his way to spend so much time in his company. He couldn’t imagine how much of his own life he was giving up to be by his side. “Don’t you have other friends?”

“Yeah, and unlike yours mine are made of awesome,” he replied. “But I see them plenty during the week. You, I hardly get to see at all.”

Much as he wanted to fight it, to keep the boy at arm’s length for both their protection, Derek couldn’t stop the warmth from spreading through his chest. “Fine. I’m assuming you’ll argue if I suggest you sleep in the guest suite.”

“You assume correctly. Dibs on the bathroom,” Stiles cried, leaping up with far too much enthusiasm for a boy who had been sleeping against his shoulder not fifteen minutes earlier. He sprinted to the door and left Derek to groan his frustration into his palm.

“Derek!”

He looked up at his name and had to bite back some very colorful idioms. “Stiles, put some damn clothes on.”

“What? Important parts are covered.” He pointed -- rather unnecessarily, Derek thought -- to his underwear. “And I can’t shower without a towel. How do you not have extra towels? You live in a fucking palace!”

“They’re in the vanity, dumbass,” he bit out.

“Oh, okay.” 

He spun and left him alone again with tight trousers and a gut roiling with self-loathing. Derek thought about taking himself to the guest suite, showering where he had a hint of privacy and could moan the boy’s name all he wanted. He thought about taking his pillow and pajamas with him so he could sleep in an empty bed and not fear what he might wake up to. Before he could act on these very sensible thoughts, Stiles was standing before him again, skin damp, hair dripping, wearing only a towel. The little shit was doing it on purpose. He had to be.

“Your turn,” the kid said.

“Fine,” he muttered and managed to keep his arousal hidden when he stood. 

He stared at his reflection in the foggy mirror, looking at the mess the boy had made of him. Seven years he had spent pushing his desires away, denying any feelings he might have felt for anyone, and this kid had ruined him inside two months. Growling his impotence and irritation, he threw his clothes at the pile Stiles had left on the floor, and stepped into the shower. He stood under the scalding water for an epoch, working himself raw, hating himself for wanting the boy, and hoping Stiles would fall asleep before Derek went to bed. 

Towel wrapped tightly around his hips, he padded through to his dressing room, where the boy was sitting on the lounge wearing his monogrammed satin pajamas and looking as if he owned the whole palace.

“You take forever in the shower,” Stiles complained. 

“Go to bed, Stiles.”

His scowl might have been impressive had it not cracked open into a yawn. “Fine.”

Derek liked to think the exhausted boy had stayed up just to catch a glimpse of him barely dressed, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen already. Besides, he knew the sight of him wearing next to nothing had absolutely no effect on the kid. Given his seemingly endless list of reasons he loved Lydia Martin, it wasn’t all that surprising. Stiles was as straight as they came. 

So he dressed and climbed into bed, hugging Waffles and trying his best not to think about the boy on the other side of the dog. 

“Hey, Derek,” Stiles whispered. 

“What?”

“So how did the movie end?”

“You said it was cheating if I told you,” he reminded him. 

“It is, but I want to know.”

“No.”

The boy whined in the darkness. He could feel him moving, the mattress dipping lower as he shifted closer. When he spoke again, Derek could feel the warmth of his breath. “Please.”

“No. You’ll complain at me.”

“I won’t,” he insisted, shifted closer still until Derek felt a knee against his own. 

“Don’t make me kick you out of my bed,” he threatened. Rather unconvincingly, too. 

“You wouldn’t disappoint the dogs like that.”

“They’ll survive.”

“You wouldn’t disappoint me like that.”

“I’m told the guest suite beds are more comfortable than this one.”

“Dick.”

The mattress moved and bounced as Stiles worked his way back to his side of the mattress. Chicken hopped onto the bed and settled down between them, and Derek closed his eyes. 

“Hey, Derek.”

“What?”

“Thank you for fixing my Jeep.”

“You’re welcome. Now go to sleep.”

Sleep was not an easy commodity to come by that night. Every time the boy moved, Derek woke. Every time he woke, he swore the boy had gotten closer. Too many times, he was shocked awake in the dark, terrified the kid had gotten close enough to touch. They were fears well-founded, he discovered, when he woke before dawn with Stiles in his arms. They were not slotted together as they had been the previous instance they shared his bed. This time, the boy had his face pressed into his chest, his arm curled around to hug his back, one leg thrown over his hip, the other wedged between his knees. Derek had no hope of extricating himself without waking him, so he hugged the boy closer and enjoyed the feel of him. 

He stayed awake for too long just to hold him and to think of an excuse for doing so when Stiles woke and questioned him. 

When morning came, he found his excuses pointless. Stiles was already shuffling around the room, dressed for the day and with a slice of toast in his mouth. 

“Sleeping beauty, took you long enough. I was getting ready to clock you with a pillow,” the kid said. “You would not believe how we slept last night. Let’s just say, your soft caramel center comes out while you sleep. Prince Derek the Cuddler. Who would have guessed?” He offered a wink and a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://iamtarasoleil.tumblr.com/)!  
> Snippets of stories currently in the works to be posted there soon. :)


	17. Blue & Orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which speeches are given and/or practiced and colors are discussed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More music for the not-quite playlist:  
> Elaiza - [Is It Right!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UW4KQqcH1E4) (Eurvision 2014)

17: Blue & Orange  
He had been wrong. So very wrong.

He had been wrong about the council. A dignified tone and polite manner didn’t sway them. However, Daniel’s website and the subsequent barrage of emails in favor of the race and selected course worked to convince most that the idea was worthy of their approval. Monroe, as predicted, was determinately against anything a Hale suggested.

He had been wrong about not wanting Stiles there.

If he could have looked away from Monroe’s hateful glare to the boy instead, he knew he could have kept his temper so much easier. He kept it. The week of observing his mother and her aids in action had been enlightening and not one disparaging word left his mouth. His tone never wavered. He stuck to the script, sidestepping her vitriol and redirecting attention back to the subject of the course and why it was beneficial to the city, which only made the woman more irate, more belligerent. Her reaction made him want desperately to have a friend there, to know that at least one person present thought her hate as misplaced as he did. He wanted Stiles there.

He was wrong to think Stiles would listen to his request, that he would stay away.

After the vote; after Monroe left, shouting her diatribes over the applause for Derek’s victory; after he shook hands with the council and made polite conversation; after the press ran back to their offices; after Daniel cleared away the charts, that was when he saw him standing against the back wall. His plaid shirt was a beacon, drawing his eye as nothing else could.

“You kicked ass!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the nearly empty hall.

Derek smiled at his enthusiasm and his approach. “I had help.”

“Yeah, yeah, save it for the reporters.” The kid waved his modesty away, poking him in the chest as he said, “ _You_ kicked ass.”

“Yes, I did.”

“That’s more like it,” Stiles said, smiling proudly at him.

It took a moment for him to realize that the boy wasn’t alone, that the young man milling nearby wasn’t just another member of the public waiting to meet the Prince; he was waiting for Stiles.

“A friend of yours?” Derek questioned.

Stiles followed his eye. “Scott!”

The young man looked up at his name, uncertainty clear on his face. He moved closer at the boy’s insistent gesture, giving a shallow, awkward bow. “Your grace.”

“He doesn’t like it when people say that,” the boy told him in a whisper.

“Well, I don’t think I could get away with calling him a dick,” he retorted and shoved his friend. He looked apologetic and mildly terrified. “Sorry.”

Stiles was making introductions before Derek could soothe his concerns. “Derek, this is Scott, my best friend and pretty much brother. Scott, this is Derek; don’t be fooled by that face, his caramel center is even softer than yours. No lie.”

Scott snorted as Derek did, and he knew that he was going to like him. It wasn’t that surprising. Stiles wouldn’t have taken him as a friend if there wasn’t something worth liking about him. That line of reasoning often gave him hope for himself, knowing that there was something worthy in him if Stiles was willing to make him a friend, too.

“So what are you doing to celebrate your win?” Stiles demanded. “Party?”

“No, I have to get back by three. I’m sitting in on a meeting with the cultural attaché to Greece.”

“That sounds boring,” he whined. “We should go adopt another dog before they’re all gone.”

“I already have one, Stiles.”

“One dog,” he scoffed. “Scott, is one dog ever enough?”

“Never,” his friend concurred.

“And did you manage to forget that I'm in charge of your dog, too?” Derek asked.

“Now how could I forget Waffles the wiggliest puppy in the world? Dude, you've got to meet this dog,” he said, turning to his friend. “Your caramel center will melt. You got time now?”

“Can't,” he replied. “Class in thirty minutes. I'm going to be cutting it way too close as it is. Another time?” He looked to Derek for permission.

“That's fine. Stiles knows my number.”

Scott nodded and threw his hand up in a salute, for which his friend slapped him. “He doesn't like that either.”

“I can't help it,” Scott hissed. “I won’t be so awkward next time. Promise.”

Stiles snorted. “Yeah, right. You're a bigger nerd than me. I was cool before you scarlet nerded me.”

“Keep telling yourself that. I’m not the one constantly referencing Star Wars, loser,” he said, shoving the boy one last time.

Derek considered him as he left. The young man might be shorter than Stiles but seemed older. If he had class starting midday, then he was probably in college. Much like his knowing so many high-ranking members of the city, he found it odd that Stiles had friends and acquaintances spanning so many years. When he was in high school, Derek rarely socialized outside his year with the exception of his basketball teammates, yet Stiles was friends with Lydia, a woman some four years older, Boyd, and now Scott, who he took to be at least eighteen.

He was wondering how to broach the subject of Stiles, his age, and his eclectic collection of friends, which now included one prince of the realm when the boy started talking.

“So that was Scott. He’s weird, but he’ll grow on you,” Stiles assured him.

“I’m sure he will,” he agreed. “What class is he taking?”

“Officer class. Jerk is already up for another promotion.”

“Army?”

“Air Force,” he corrected. “He’s been going a bit nuts about being in the parade. He’s a total dork about shit like that. His mom already arranged to take the day off work to watch him.”

“Isn’t the entire city getting the day off?”

“Hospital staff doesn’t get the day off,” the boy said. “Stupid people do stupid shit even on holidays. _Especially_ on holidays.”

“His mother is a doctor?”

“A nurse. Like the head nurse. Patched me up more times than I care to admit. Scott and I did some pretty stupid things growing up,” he laughed.

“And what about his father?”

“An asshole.” The hard period at that the end of that statement was quite evident.

“Oh,” he said, curious but not enough to press for more information if Stiles wasn’t willing to give it. Really, it wasn’t his personal information to divulge, and Derek shouldn’t be asking him. So he asked about Stiles’s family instead. “What about your mother?”

The boy’s face stilled, telling him all he really needed to know.

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. She passed a while ago.”

He ached to reach for the boy, to wrap his arms around him, to comfort him as he would want to be comforted. Even if he could get away with such a thing, they were in public. Such displays were not acceptable for Hales. So he did the nearest thing, squeezing the boy’s shoulder in comfort and delayed condolences. “When?”

“Twelve years ago.”

Twelve years; over half a lifetime for someone so young. “I’m sorry.”

“Can we go look at the dogs?” He sounded so small and lost, there was no way Derek could deny him.

“Yeah.” He considered his clothes, the blue sash of his station draped over a fine wool suit. They were clothes meant to impress and inspire, not roll on the floor with abandoned and stray animals. “I didn’t think to bring Miguel.”

That was a lie. He had thought about it. He nearly wore the boy's shirt under his own like knights of old wore chainmail, and for much the same reason. Stiles was like his armor, protecting him against disparaging remarks because he knew the boy liked him, would come when he called.

“Wear mine,” he insisted, stripping himself of the vibrant orange shirt and handing it to him. “It'll look stupid with that sash, though.”

“Give me a minute. I'll meet you at your Jeep.”

Daniel was waiting by the car, looking as much like a bodyguard as the man actually assigned that task. He considered Derek as he approached, his eyes focusing on the plaid shirt in his hands. The corners of his mouth curled upwards slightly as he held the car door open.

“Should I clear the rest of your afternoon, sir?”

“Unnecessary, Daniel. Just make sure no one follows me,” he requested and ducked into the back of the car. The tinted privacy partition was already raised, which meant there was nothing to stop him throwing off the sash, jacket, and tie. He was still fighting his arm from the sleeve of his crisp white shirt as he climbed out the opposite door and made a run for the baby blue Jeep parked halfway down the street.

He heard a shout behind him but didn’t stop, not until he was buckled into the passenger seat.

“To the puppies!” Stiles shouted and gunned the engine, setting the tires to squealing on the asphalt as they lurched forward and away.

Traffic and probably a touch of interference from his secretary left his car well and truly behind. He grinned at the view in the side mirror, at the line of cars stretching back as far as he could see. Not one of them was a stately black sedan.

“So, Miguel, you hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Good, you’re buying.”

“Ass,” he said without a hint of venom.

“Dick,” the boy replied with a smile.

They drove, Derek staring out the window as his city rolled past. He didn’t much care where they were going. Once, not so very long ago, he would have required an itinerary before getting into any car. His destination would have been assessed and approved, the surrounding area scouted, the staff vetted. Not now. Not when he was with Stiles. He dared look the boy’s way and saw him tapping at the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead and lips moving nonstop.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“What’s what?”

“Whatever you’re saying,” he said as if it were obvious.

Color rose in his cheeks. “Oh, nothing. Just something I’m practicing.”

“A speech?”

“Uh, yeah, kinda.”

“You should say it out loud. In front of someone.”

“Fuck no!” he spat, sounding almost angry at the prospect. “I’m so not humiliating myself in front of someone until it’s absolutely necessary.”

“If you practiced then maybe you wouldn’t humiliate yourself. What’s this for?”

He slouched further down in his seat, scowling and silent for another three kilometers. “A confession.”

Derek was sure he heard it wrong. “Sorry?”

“A confession! I’m trying to tell someone how I feel, okay? God, you’re worse than Scott.”

“All right,” he said, a sharp, hateful pain stabbing him in the chest at the thought of the boy declaring his love to someone else. “Who is this for?”

“I don’t want to tell you,” he muttered.

“It’s for Lydia Martin, isn’t it?”

“Shut up!” the boy whined, and he did.

For far too long, the only noise was the growl of the perfectly tuned engine and the buzz of the knobby tires on the road; he was fairly certain Stiles could hear his heart hammering anxiously in his chest, throwing itself against his bruised ribs until it broke. Of course he was practicing words of love for Lydia. Perfect Lydia with her green eyes and strawberry blonde hair, her petite form and grand intellect. He had heard it all -- and at great length -- how many weeks ago? He had been an idiot to think anything would have changed in the few times they’d met.

“Fine,” Stiles groaned. “I’ll tell you.”

“You don’t need to,” he insisted. Truthfully, he had no desire to listen to the boy confess his love to someone who wasn’t him.

“No, but I heard you today. You speak well, like _really_ well. You talk to reporters all the time, give speeches and shit,” the kid insisted. “You know what a good speech sounds like.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice. Comes with the title.” He sighed, unable to deny him anything. “All right. What is this grand confession?”

“Well, it’s more of a work in progress right now. It’s basically just talking about two things you wouldn’t think would go together -- like that stupid blue sash and my orange shirt -- and how great they actually end up being.” He pulled his lower lip into his mouth and chewed on it, eyes darting to Derek.

“So unlikely combinations,” Derek said. “Opposites attracting.”

“Yes! Exactly!” he cried. “I mean, orange and blue are maybe not the best, right? But sometimes there are other things you wouldn’t think would be a good combination that turn out to be a perfect combination. Like two people that no one would have thought would ever be together, but they actually work.”

“Like you and Lydia,” Derek said, eyeing him.

“That not really-- You think so? You think she’s the blue to my orange?”

He breathed a pained laugh. “Stiles, I think she’s stupid to not want to be your blue.”

“I don’t know. My orange is pretty obnoxious sometimes.”

“And if she doesn’t appreciate that, then she doesn’t deserve to be your blue. You could have any blue you want.”

“Even cerulean? I fucking love that color.”

He smiled, though it hurt to do so. Cerulean was the color of his sash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting better at keeping up with [my tumblr](http://iamtarasoleil.tumblr.com/), so swing by and say hello. I'm posting snippets of chapters I'm editing and projects I'm working on, so PLEASE give me some feedback and let me know if you think things are worth pursuing or if I'm heading in stupid directions.


	18. Suits & Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we jump over approximately four months of pining. Mutual pining? Well, who is to say...

18: Suits & Steps

Something was wrong. Derek was sure of it.

That was not to say that something had changed. It hadn't. Things were as they had been for the past few months -- since the crash, since the council meeting, since Stiles started hanging out with him weeknights as well as Sundays.

Things were normal.

Only he was sure they weren’t.

It had taken him a while to realize just how not normal things with Stiles actually were, but the idea was there now. It was there, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how Stiles was in his bed. Again. Legs tangled with his. Again. Arm around his waist, fingertips just brushing the bare skin under his shirt, ear to his chest. This was most definitely not normal. He had been sixteen once. He knew how stark the lines were at that age. Boys like boy things -- cars, sports, breasts. If a boy didn’t like those things, he pretended he did just to avoid appearing different. Boys of his age did not spend their nights hugging other guys. To do so crossed that thick, dark line of demarcation between things that were expected, accepted, normal and things that got people ostracized.

Stiles had crossed that line several times over. Perhaps he thought he could get away with it because Derek didn’t go to his school, and he assumed no one could gossip. Whatever the reason, Stiles seemed to think it perfectly fine to hop into his bed three nights a week. Derek wanted to enjoy the boy’s eagerness as well as his touch, but Stiles was still a child and still in love with Lydia Martin. The confession he had practiced some weeks past was more than evidence of that.

So he pushed the boy away, trying not to be swayed by his sleepy whines at the loss of contact. “Dammit, Stiles, stay on your side,” he complained, giving the boy another shove.

The reply that came was thick with sleep. “You’re so warm and cuddly.”

“So is the fucking dog. Hug him for a change.”

“You suck,” the boy mumbled and rolled over, giving him a kick before settling back into a snoring sleep.

“This is not news.”

He sighed and stared up at the ceiling, pointlessly wishing for things that could never come to be. Stiles would always be too young. Derek would always be too damaged. Much as he liked to think either of those things might change with time, he knew they wouldn’t. Hours he wasted wanting what he could never have.

“Is that breakfast?” the boy asked.

Derek blinked the tears away and listened, hearing the quiet clink of the coffee service being rolled into his reception room. “Sounds like.”

“Awesome. I’m starving.”

They waited until the main door to his rooms shut before getting out of bed. So many weeks had passed since that first night Stiles had crashed in his rooms, but the sight of him in the mornings still made Derek ache. His hair had grown longer since November, long enough to be sleep-tousled and askew, long enough for him to bury his fingers in.

“Dude, quit staring.” Stiles threw a pillow at him. “I know I look stupid in the morning.”

“No worse than me,” he replied.

The boy scoffed. “Says the freaking Greek god of a pretty, rich boy.”

“Stop trying to butter me up. I’m not adopting another dog for you.”

“Dammit, why not? Waffles is lonely.” He stomped after him, chasing him out into the wide expanse of his reception room.

“Waffles has Chicken. Waffles isn’t lonely,” Derek informed him for what had to be the sixtieth time. “Waffles also gets more attention from the staff than any dog I’ve ever had, and he’s not even mine.”

“Don’t be jealous of Waffles, Derek. It’s unbecoming to a man of your standing,” he said with a grin. That grin fell as he reached for his plate. “What’s this?”

It was a testament to the number of nights he spent in Derek’s rooms that the tray now included a second table setting and twice the food it once did. He glanced over the hillock of fruit, bacon, and eggs to look at the white envelope where an empty plate ought to be. He had seen that envelope before. Actually, he had seen several boxes of them.

“It’s an invitation to the Bicentennial Ball.”

“You don’t mean the round, bouncy kind of ball, do you?” the boy said, his voice quavering slightly. “You mean the dress up fancy and dance with a partner kind of ball.” As he spoke, his face turned as pale as the envelope sitting untouched before him.

“What’s the matter? I’ve seen you dance.”

“Exactly! That’s the only kind of dancing I know how to do,” he groaned and pulled at his hair. “I flail around more or less in time to the music. It’s fun, but that’s not what this is going to be. This is going to be proper waltzes and shit.”

He realized how right he was. He also knew that the boy's education likely hadn't included ballroom dance lessons. Derek's had. “I can teach you.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want you embarrassing either of us.”

“Oh, thank you. Kick me while I’m down.” He threw the invitation off his plate; face contorted as if it were a diseased rodent and not twenty-five percent Egyptian cotton with embossed gold leaf. “Will you really help me?”

“You know I will.”

The boy grinned at him. “If we can pull this off, I’m totally hugging the shit out of you for it.”

“And if we can’t?”

“Then you will give me copious amounts of alcohol and wallow with me in shared humiliation, and I will hug you anyway because I’m a clingy drunk. I’m thinking that’s the most likely outcome.” He moped through breakfast, picking at his food and glancing at the envelope periodically with a hateful glare. While the boy’s intensity excited him more than he wanted to admit, it pained Derek to know the underlying motivation for it was fear; the last thing he ever wanted was for Stiles to be unhappy.

“Where’s my phone? I’ll call Cora.”

“What for?”

Derek couldn’t keep his eyebrow from lifting at the question. “So you have someone to dance with.”

“Oh, I thought-- Never mind. Yeah, good plan. Call a girl,” the boy rambled, stabbing at his eggs and muttering something under his breath. Derek caught the words ‘smooth’ and ‘stupid’ but nothing else.

He wanted to assure him that Cora wouldn’t judge him, that she would be patient and understanding of his handicap, but those would all be lies. His younger sister was the least patient and understanding person he had ever met, but Laura was too busy. They hadn’t had an actual dance instructor in years, so there was no professional to call on. He knew Stiles would balk at the idea of asking a staff member to step in; the boy would want the fewest number of strangers possible witnessing his humiliation. So he texted Cora.

He found his phone and texted her while Stiles sulked.

_Be in the ballroom in 20 minutes. Teaching Stiles to dance._

The reply came back almost immediately. _And you need me there to take compromising photos?_

_No. To be his partner. You owe me._

_Lame._   
_Fine._   
_Hate you._

“She’ll meet us in the ballroom,” Derek confirmed.

“This is going to suck so hard,” Stiles groaned into his hands.

“Probably, we all suck the first time.”

The boy looked up at him, eyebrow quirked up along with the corner of his mouth. “Are you talking about horizontal dancing now?”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“It’s my natural state of being. As my friend of six months, I think you ought to know this by now.”

“I do know it, but I can still call you on it. It’s what friends do: Call each other on their shit. Or so I was told.” He gave the boy a smirk and kicked him under the table. “Go put some grown-up clothes on. Cora hates waiting.”

The kid complied, though not without ample complaint. He borrowed some of Derek’s clothes and followed him from the residential wing to the central span where the ballroom sat at the heart of the palace. It was rarely used for such grand spectacles as balls anymore, and if it weren’t for the bicentennial event fast approaching it likely would have been a mess of dust, cobwebs, and stored furniture. The staff had been working for a month to put it back in order. The floors shone. The chandeliers sparkled. Stiles saw it all, too. He spun, open-mouthed, eyes darting to every door, window, table and painting. He did it wherever they went, taking in the entirety of a space within seconds of entering it, but there were so many more details to see in a room this large, he was still making his observations a full minute later.

“How do you even have this in your house?” he balked. “You’re ridiculous. Seriously.”

Without warning, he turned again, this time with purpose, moving in front of Derek and staring fixedly down the length of the room. Derek didn’t understand what had brought on his sudden change in stance until he heard the music that echoed and re-echoed off the plaster walls. His eyes took a moment to focus on Cora, stalking toward them with arms crossed from the opposite end of the hall. The recently oiled hinges hadn’t so much as sighed her arrival, yet Stiles had somehow known she was there.

“Any day now!” she called.

“She’s going to murder me for this, isn’t she?” Stiles whispered, his momentary calm withering in the face of Cora’s general lack of civility.

He put a reassuring hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Murder? No. Never let you forget it for as long as you’re both drawing breath? Absolutely.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he smiled and pushed the boy closer to his sister.

“So have you ever done anything even remotely like this before?” she demanded. “I need to know what I’m working with.”

“You’re working with nothing,” Stiles admitted.

“Well, can’t say I’m’ surprised. Derek, a demonstration,” she turned to him expectantly.

He knew what to do. After spending an hour each afternoon practicing every day of every month since they were six, they both knew exactly how to move around one another. Derek bowed. Cora dipped into a curtsy in reply. He offered his hand, and she accepted. One hand on her waist, the other wrapped around her palm in mid-air, they moved, embellishing the simple box step with spins and turn, a bend just on the shy side of being a dip. When the waltz ended, they stopped, repeated their courtesies and separated.

“ _Fuck you!_ ” Stiles cried. “That’s just mean showing me that. I can’t do that shit.”

“It’s just a matter of practice, Stiles,” he insisted. “Come on. Come here. Start with the basics. Bow.”

He did. Cora curtsied.

“Hand,” she prompted. Stiles threw his palm toward her, looking more like he was trying to slap her than anything else. “Smooth. Real smooth.”

“I hate you,” Stiles grumbled.

“Starting to feel the same way, Stilinski.”

“Box step,” Derek said over their bitterness. “Imagine you’re stepping on the corners of a square.”

“Square, got it,” he said immediately.

“Left foot forward onto one corner, right to the opposite corner.”

In stilted, awkward steps, the boy did as he was instructed, moving more or less in the appropriate direction. It took close to an hour, but he was able to perform the basic box step without watching his feet, stepping on Cora’s, or counting under his breath.

It also took about an hour for his sister to finally reach the limit of her finite patience.

“Okay, I’m done,” she informed them, dropping the boy’s hand and leaving him standing alone and confused on the polished parquet of the ballroom floor.

“Did I do it wrong?” Stiles asked, watching her go.

“No, that’s just Cora.”

“What now? I can’t practice alone.”

Derek stood considering their options as Cora’s ancient mp3 player continued to fill the room with the tinny strands of the Viennese waltz. He sighed, “Come on.”

“What?”

“I’ll dance with you.”

The boy stared at him, color rising in his face. “But you’re…”

“I’m the only one with enough time and patience to teach you how not to look like an idiot in front of several hundred people, that’s what I am,” he insisted.

“I’m all for avoiding that particular brand of mental anguish,” Stiles agreed. “Do I have to treat you like a girl?”

He laughed. “Considering that one hundred percent of your partners are going to be female, then, yeah, you do.”

“In that case, bring that sexy body in a little closer, sweetheart.” He offered a smarmy grin as his hand dropped down and grabbed his ass.

“You are so lucky you didn’t try this on Cora,” he muttered, wishing there was just a fraction of sincerity in his actions.

“Do I look suicidal to you?”

“You are if you try this at the ball,” Derek said.

“My hands and I aren’t going anywhere near your sisters at this thing,” he insisted.

“My sisters won’t be the only women of note attending the ball. There are going to be royals, aristocrats, elected officials, diplomats, delegates. There isn’t going to be a woman that can’t ruin your life for a single misplaced touch. So get your hand off my ass and put it where it belongs.”

He stayed as he was a fraction of a second too long in Derek’s opinion, but the boy finally slid his palm back up to his back. “Spoilsport.”

“Shut up and dance, idiot.”

A change in partner threw off what little rhythm the boy had managed to find, he was misstepping more often than not, landing on Derek’s toes, and trying to break his nose with his skull every time he glanced down to watch his feet. Derek remembered how difficult it was, but he also knew Stiles was prone to overthinking everything.

“Do you have something to wear?” he asked, trying to distract the boy.

“Huh?”

“Clothes,” he prompted. “For the ball. Do you have some?”

He breathed a laugh. “Do I have some? You won’t even recognize me, I’ll look so good.”

“What color waistcoat?”

“Who the fuck wears waistcoats?”

“Just about every man there will be wearing one. Usually in white,” Derek informed him, smiling as the boy lead him effortlessly around the room. The step wasn’t fancy, but it was a very good start.

“Not me,” Stiles insisted.

“Please don’t tell me you own a plaid suit.”

“I wish! Nah, I have a blue one.”

“Blue? This is a formal state function, Stiles. That means white tie with virtually no exceptions. Let me call Tobias.”

“Bitch, you are not the boss of me!” he declared. “I will wear what I’m going to wear, and you are going to be in awe of how dead sexy I am. You’re going to wish you were one of those royally elected diplomatic ladies just so you could dance with me.”

It took monumental effort not to admit that he already did wish that. How much easier his life would be if he was halfway to being what Stiles desired. The age gap would remain, but at least he would have a chance. He bit back the confession he so wanted to make and said, “Not if all you can do is the box step, I won’t.”

“Teach me something better,” he demanded. “I want everyone thinking I’m the second coming of Fred Estaire.”

“Get your hand off my ass, then we’ll talk,” Derek said.

“Oh, sorry.” His words were apologetic, but his face told another story. The little shit was doing it on purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean Martin - [Sway](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nx0ekVnQEn8)


	19. Plus/Minus One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a plus-one is not invited and a shadow is noticed.

19: Plus/Minus One  
“Your boyfriend’s here?” Cora announced from the window seat overlooking the gravel drive.

Derek balled up a memo and threw it at his sister. “Shut up. He’s not my boyfriend.”

She caught wad of paper effortlessly and aimed it at his face with far more force than was necessary. “Please. He sleeps in your room. In your _bed_. You adopted fur babies together. And don’t even think I didn’t see the way he grabs your ass when you’re dancing. You’re one kiss away from being a bona fide couple.”

“He’s in love with Lydia Martin,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice as he did.

“Are you sure? I mean, the way he looks at you,” she said, voice dropping as they heard Stiles approach, “I would think he’s as gone on you as you are on him.”

“Not helping my inevitable heartbreak right now, you know that, right?”

“Try asking,” she insisted.

“Asking what?” Stiles questioned.

Cora opened her mouth, undoubtedly bent on destroying the friendship he had built with the boy. “About changing my dance card,” he said quickly. “I’m not overly keen on a few of the women they’re forcing me to dance with.”

“Wait, you mean I was right?” Stiles said, grabbing his tablet and staring at the list of names. “I was just saying that to piss you off. Do they really dictate who you have to spend your whole night with?”

“Welcome to the royal life,” Cora said, her eyes flashing as she put on a smile so broad it was terrifying.

Stiles looked at her. “Did they do that to you, too?”

“What do you think?”

“I think it sucks to be the kid of a queen.”

“This is why I like him,” Cora said, patting the boy’s shoulder on her way out.

Stiles beamed at Derek. “She likes me.”

“I heard.”

“No, you don’t understand. That’s like half your family,” his excitement making his hands fly as he explained. “She likes me. I know your dad likes me. Now I just need to get your other sister and your mom on board, and I’m all set!”

Derek’s eyebrows folded together of their own accord as the boy spoke. “All set for what?”

“Huh?” The boy looked at him, ears going pink. “Oh, for, you know, being your best friend for life. I mean, if they dictate who you dance with, then I bet they have rules about who you hang out with, too. I need them to like me if I’m going to get to keep hanging with you after the bicentennial, right?”

He nodded. “Whatever you say, Stiles.”

“Don’t be a dick. Put that down and dance with me.”

His eagerness was bordering on the off-putting, but he did as Stiles asked if only to feel the boy in his arms while awake enough to appreciate it. Also, it helped that the little shit kept copping a feel with every dance lesson. Derek didn’t even bother telling him to stop anymore.

“Are you ready?”

“To dance? Hell, yeah!”

“No, _for_ the dance,” Derek asked. “It’s next week.”

“Trust me, I know,” he said and held out his hand in invitation. “Scott is sick of me using Allison to practice dancing, said I’m making him look bad, setting impossible standards. I told him that he doesn’t even know the meaning of the phrase, not until he sees the Hales dance. I don’t think he believed me.”

Oddly, the only part that Derek took note of was that Stiles had been dancing with someone else. “Allison?”

“Scott’s girlfriend, the one he’s disgustingly in love with.”

“I don’t think you can reasonably complain about that after subjecting me to the unending list of reasons why Lydia Martin is the most spectacular creature on the planet,” Derek retorted without even bothering to hide his annoyance.

Stiles at least had the courtesy to look abashed. “Well, you’ve met her. You know what she’s like.”

“I have. And I agree that she possesses many fine qualities, but I’m not about to force someone I’ve met all of three times to listen to me expound upon them.”

The boy cringed. “All right. Okay. I’m sorry.”

“As you should be,” he said, falling silent while Stile led him through a rather complicated turn. “You’re getting pretty good.”

“Damn right, I’m getting good. Just a shame I don’t have someone to share my skills with.”

“You’ll have plenty of dance partners,” Derek assured him.

He gnawed on his lip a moment before admitting, “I’m kind of crap when I’m dancing with someone I don’t know. I almost broke Allison’s foot first time she agreed to practice with me. I know I’m going to be on the edge of a panic attack all night, and the first woman that tries dancing with me will tell all the rest to stay away.”

Stiles brought them to a stop as the music ended. They still stood, hands on one another and bodies a hair too close. He could smell the artificial fruit scent of the soda the boy had before coming to the house; he could count his eyelashes; see his eyes dart down to look at Derek’s mouth as his own tongue swept over his lips. All Derek had to do was lean in, and those newly moistened lips could be his.

For the effort it took to drop his hands and step away, he deserved a medal. “You’re exaggerating,” he forced himself to say.

“I’m not.”

“Shut up,” he gave the boy a shove. “Let’s go walk the dogs.”

The sigh the boy breathed was massive, but he followed Derek’s lead. “So who are you taking to the ball?”

“No one.”

“Oh, come on. Pretty face like yours and you’re flying solo? That’s practically a crime.”

“Thank you, but it wouldn’t be particularly considerate to my date with my evening arranged ahead of time. Who are you bringing?”

“Me? I can’t bring anyone.”

“Everyone is allowed a plus one. It’s on the invitation.”

“Not on mine,” the boy said, digging in his pocket for his phone, swiping at the screen until he found what he was searching for. “See.”

Derek took the device, feeling the fingers linger in his palm as he did. He swallowed down his desire to sigh and instead studied the photo on the screen. It was the invitation the boy had been given. He read the words and frowned. “You’re right.”

“Someone wants me to come alone. Sounds like an ambush, right?”

“Definitely sounds like a set-up of some variety,” he agreed. And he knew just who had arranged it.

Later, after they had played with the dogs and danced a bit more, after Stiles had groped his ass with a knowing gleam in his eyes, after the boy had returned home, Derek found her. “What the fuck are you playing at?”

“If mother and father heard you talking like that,” Laura warned, taking a moment to turn over the documents she was studying and adding a book atop the stack before looking at him. She looked tired, worried even, but he wasn’t going to let that sway him.

“They would say I earned the right to use a bit of coarse language,” he growled. “Now what the hell are you playing at?”

“You’ll have to be more specific, Derek. I’m dealing with rather a lot, and at least three items on my current agenda have to do with you.”

“The invitation you sent Stiles. Why is his the only one that conveniently fails to allow a date?”

The heir apparent didn’t even bother hiding her derisive laughter. “You’re joking, right? What would be the point? He’s just going to spend his entire night with you anyway. Anyone he might bring would just be neglected.”

“That’s not true. Send him a proper invitation,” Derek demanded.

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. All available seats have been officially filled, and there isn’t room for one more,” she reasoned. “Besides, the ball is one week away. That’s hardly time for him to scrounge up a date.”

“I hate you. You know that, right?”

Her smile was tainted by sadness. “Be careful saying things like that.”

The look he leveled on his sister was blacker than midnight. He would never forgive himself for what happened to her, to their parents, to their home; that guilt had been his near-constant companion for eight years. But as much as he hated himself, he also hated her for such making such comments. As if he needed reminding of what he had done. As if he would somehow be stupid enough to fall prey to such a woman again, to endanger those closest to him again.

“Are you two having a fight?”

“Of course not, mother,” he said. “I’m just making plain my opinions on Laura’s plans.”

“Regarding Stiles and the ball,” his sister clarified. “He disapproves.”

“Well, it’s too late to alter those plans now.” Talia gave her son an apologetic smile, so full of sympathy it made him want to scream. “Perhaps you should just make the best of it. I’m sure there will be room enough in the evening to ask Stiles to dance.”

As a teenager, he had a tongue that bordered on the cruel. Even after all these years and the trauma of nearly losing his family, moments like this still brought that young man to the fore. He wanted to cut them deep for what they were doing to him. They had to know how much it hurt to have the boy so close and not be able to truly call him his. Playing these little games only made it worse because he knew their intentions were good, that they, too, liked Stiles enough to want him in their family. It was that deeper level of understanding that stayed his criticisms and let him leave without saying a word.

He turned at the door, contemplating one last comment on the matter, possibly begging them to stop, but he saw them watching him, eyes shadowed and mouths tight with poorly hidden worry. The last time he had seen such looks was just before they confronted him about her.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Head of state concerns,” his mother said. “You go on.”

He nodded, though he didn’t quite believe her.

That night at dinner, he saw the same tight smile on his father’s face, the same dark eyes. He, too, was troubled. Derek couldn’t help but feel he was to blame. They ate, discussed the bicentennial events starting in just a few days’ time. The parade and military presentation, the ball that would follow, the race the following weekend; not one item of conversation worthy of putting that shadow across their faces.

“Where’s Stiles?” Cora asked. Unlike the rest of the family, she did not appear in any way troubled.

“I’m not sure. He’s being vague,” Derek admitted. “Something to do with the parade, that much I do know.”

“Maybe because Scott’s in it,” she suggested. He wasn’t in the least bit surprised to hear the name from her mouth; Stiles talked of the boy nearly as often as he drew breath. It was hard to imagine having a friend so close, but he liked to think he had found one in Stiles.

“Speaking of the parade,” Talia said. “Derek, I want you to join me for the military presentation. You’ve done a wonderful job with the EU representatives. I thought it would only follow that you should be there to see the troops during the pomp as well.”

“Of course,” he agreed, though it was the last thing he wanted.

“I will have your secretary make a note of it.” She typed the reminder into her tablet, swiping her calendar away to read through some memoranda as she ate. Whatever the documents read was not good news; he could see her face drawing closed, her expression turning blank. After twenty-five years, he had learned that as a sign that his mother was deeply worried.

“When is Stiles coming over for another round of chess?” his father asked.

Derek blinked half a dozen times, clearing his head and turning his attention away from his mother. “I’m not sure. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Make it happen. I’m sure whatever he’s up to isn’t as important as destroying my ego.”

“I’ll ask him.”

“Ask now,” he prompted.

He sent the text while his father watched. It was tempting to add a note about how strange both his parents were acting, but he decided that was a comment better left unsent. He would make it, but quietly and directly into the boy’s ear. It wasn’t paranoia. He knew his messages were monitored and had been for eight years.

The reply came back quickly and in Stiles’s usual fashion.

 _Hell yeah I’m ready to kick his ass_  
 _Tell him to grab some tissues_  
 _Because he’s going to be crying man tears after the beating he’s going to get_  
 _Tomorrow okay?_  
 _Like_ 7pm _?_  
 _Oh, hey_  
 _Make sure you hide the booze_

“That boy needs to be on medicine,” his father commented.

“He is.”

“Lord help his poor father.” He shook his head in sympathy. “I think I’d like to meet the man capable of handling that child. Find a way to get him here, Derek.”

He agreed, though the idea of their parents meeting terrified him beyond measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: I'm now three chapters into writing a time-traveling Stiles fic. Damn this fandom!


	20. Swept Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles looks dead sexy and a ball is attended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more for the playlist:   
> Abel Korzeniowski - [ Melting Waltz ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7gF6A04vZiI)
> 
> I nearly went with [Dance For Me Wallis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YxO1csWNKmg) by the same composer. ...are we noticing a theme?

20: Swept Up  
Little toy soldiers all in a row. 

He had played with them for hours as a child, waging tiny wars on the sitting room floor, lining them up and knocking them down again. Now here he was watching them march past, real men that couldn’t just be picked up and set in a new line on the carpet. Army in their crisp brown parade uniforms. Navy in stark white. Air Force in deep blue. Each line paused to salute their Queen and marched on. 

Derek felt uneasy watching them, especially the Army. His toy soldiers had uniforms of brown plastic. How many of them had he sent to their deaths on the sitting room battlefield?

His eyes glazed over as they passed. He paid just as little attention to the Navy. With the arrival of dress blues, he stood a little taller. Stiles’s best friend was in one of these lines. He was honor bound to show him respect. Deucalion lead the Air Force into view, his sharp chin raised with pride as he looked to the Queen. More men and women followed, but he didn’t recognize a single one. Then he saw the uneven jawline of the young man he had met only once. Scott McCall. His eyes locked onto Derek, and his salute was embellished with a slight jerk of his head toward the line that followed. 

Whatever message he was attempting to convey didn’t quite translate, leaving Derek in confusion as he marched on. 

The next row approached, stopped, and saluted. He studied the man closest, still perplexed as to why Scott felt the need to gesture toward him. He looked no different than any other Airman in his dress blues, pressed and polished, cap pulled low over his forehead. As the man saluted, his mouth turned up in a smirk. One of his eyes closed briefly in a wink. Eyes the golden, translucent brown of whiskey. As he turned, Derek saw the familiar constellation of moles on his face. Stiles.

“Did you know Stiles was in the Air Force?” Laura questioned behind her fixed smile. 

“No,” he tried to answer but couldn’t manage it. He had no breath left in him.

The rest of the Air Force paraded past, but not one uniformed man or woman registered in his eyes. How would they after seeing Stiles? Stiles in his dress blues. Stiles in uniform. If he wore a uniform, if he ranked high enough to place on the royal end of his line, there was no possible way he was just sixteen. His chest warmed with a hope he never thought he would feel again. Stiles might not be out of his reach.

Mechanically, he completed his duties alongside his mother and sister, saluting and following them back to the palace on numb feet. 

Once inside, Laura's regal airs fell and she laughed. “That boy looks good in uniform.”

He could only nod his agreement. He thought of Stiles only in his signature plaid, but he looked just at home in dress blues.

Blue. 

He had said his suit for the ball would be blue. He knew about Deucalion and Harris. He said he had places to be in the morning, but the word ‘school’ had never passed his lips in the six months they had known one another. Weeks of conversations repeated themselves in his head, and Derek realized what an idiot he truly was. Not once had Stiles given any indication that he was actually in school or even a teenager; it was all Derek making assumptions based on how young he looked. Even knowing the boy drove unsupervised, drank with some level of tolerance, and had friends in their later teens or twenties, he had assumed, and, as the saying went, he had made an ass of himself.

“I am such a moron,” he muttered.

“This is news to no one, little brother,” Laura said. “So I'm thinking a Cinderella moment at the ball. The two of you dancing. A confession of love. What do you think?”

“I think there will be cameras.”

“I think that shouldn't matter if you love him,” she commented, pausing to look at him. “Do you?”

He didn’t reply, though the answer was a ‘yes’ so profound that it terrified him. His whole body vibrated with the anticipation of seeing Stiles again, of knowing he was so much closer than Derek had thought possible. It killed him to have to wait the five hours for the ball to start. He paced his rooms, willing the time to pass more quickly. He paced the whole of the residential wing, making both a spectacle and an obstacle of himself.

“Jesus, calm down,” Cora complained when she bumped into him outside her rooms. 

“Derek, really,” his mother chided. 

“Just go take a nap or something,” Laura ordered, shoving him toward his door. 

It was a good idea. The night would be long, and he wanted to be awake for every moment of it. Laying down was pointless, though, He couldn’t sleep. Closing his eyes only brought images of Stiles in uniform, of the sinewy body beneath. Well, at least that gave him something to do for the remaining hours. And do it he did. The thought of stripping Stiles of that uniform had him coming so many times he finally exhausted himself and fell asleep, where he dreamed again of the handsome young man in dress blues and a wicked smile. He slept until the resonant clang of the dressing gong roused him, and then he raced to the bathroom and into the shower. 

He was a little ashamed of how long he took getting ready, making sure his shave was dangerously close, his hair was perfect, his sash arranged just so. It felt stupid, but he wanted to look good for Stiles. 

Cora pounded on his door with her usual impatient, repetitive beat as she moved past. It was time to get into position. The guests had been let in. The Royal House of Hale needed to make their grand entrance. Once, he had loved it. The spectacle and awe. The attention. Now he just wanted to get in there, to find Stiles and not leave his side. 

Remembering to breathe was surprisingly difficult. 

Fingers twined with his, and he looked to see Laura smiling at him. “You’ll do fine,” she assured him. “He loves you.”

“Not like I love him,” he admitted. “But that’s okay.”

“Derek, you're my brother, I love you, but you’re an idiot.”

His retort was lost in the polite applause that followed the doors opening. Talia led the family onto the dais, her husband and heir followed. Derek and Cora walked together, spares that they were. Stony mask in place, he scanned the room counting the number of men in Royal Faron Air Force uniforms. Five. That would make it easier to find Stiles. 

Sadly, that would have to wait. The agenda for royal balls had been laid down two hundred years earlier at the first coronation. With the arrival of the royal family, there was an opening dance performed by the Hales partnered with prominent members of Faron society, and only then could the rest of the attendees step on to the floor. His partner for the opening dance was Kali, a woman he had found attractive once. Any potential for romance quickly soured when he realized she had been attempting to climb him like a ladder onto a higher social rung; one she had apparently reached if she was his partner for the first dance. Really, was it any wonder that he had stopped being attracted to women when this is what he was presented with constantly? 

“Your Grace,” Kali greeted him, her smile predatory. “You’re looking well.”

“Thank you,” he said, skin crawling as she took his hand. “I’m probably supposed to ask after your husband.”

“He’s doing very well. I’m still disappointed that I don’t get a title, though,” she admitted. “I was so looking forward to having people call me ‘Duchess’, but I guess I’ll just have to do better next time.” Her eye was shrewd as it looked him over, and he knew she was computing the odds of becoming a princess now that she had risen into the aristocracy, possibly even counting how many people would need to die for her to become a queen.

The dance really needed to start. The sooner it started, the sooner he could be rid of her. That was truly the only good that came of having his dance card arranged in advance; he rarely was forced to dance with the same person more than once.

The disgusted glare that was fighting to reveal itself on his face slipped away when he looked at the woman. “Your nose. It’s bleeding.”

“What?” She touched a gloved hand to her face. The tips came away heavy with red.

“I’m sure Doctor Deaton is here somewhere,” he assured her. 

The woman spun as the music began, releasing his hand and running from the open dance floor and away, fingers clutching her nose. Derek stood a moment, unsure what to do. Protocol probably would dictate that he seek out the next woman on his dance card, but he had never needed to learn such things; he had never been left without a partner. The others were already moving to the music and couldn’t tell him what to do. 

A familiar laugh caught his ear, and he turned to see Stiles standing beside him. He looked taller in uniform, closer to the adult he must be. His expressions less goofy and more sardonic. Derek couldn’t help but smile. 

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” the boy -- the man -- informed him. 

“So I’ve been told,” Derek replied. 

“Wanna dance?” 

“With you? Here? In front of all these people and those cameras?”

“I promise not to grab your ass. I am an officer and a gentleman, after all.” He grinned as he threw up a salute exactly as he had the first day they met. 

Derek laughed and bowed. Stiles paused as if debating whether he ought to curtsey. It was the first of several faux pas that set the observing crowd twittering with delight. Both men held their arms up as if there were going to lead before Stiles chuckled and agreed to act the girl and allow Derek lead. 

“Princes probably aren’t supposed to follow, huh?” he said and put his hand in Derek’s. 

“Not usually, no.” Derek agreed, his voice dropping as he said, “Right foot back on three. One, two, three.” He stepped forward as Stiles took a step back. All those hours moving together had not been wasted; the man followed his lead as easily as Derek had followed his. 

“This really is harder backwards,” Stiles said. “Your sisters deserve major credit for being able to do this. No lie.”

“And in heels,” Cora added as her partner spun her past. 

“It just comes down to having a strong lead,” Derek insisted. “And I’m very good at this.”

Stiles smiled. “Now there is the arrogant asshole I knew was in there somewhere. No way you could be that man-pretty and not be at least a little conceited.”

“What about you?” he demanded. “Look at you in that uniform. Dead sexy, just like you said. Thanks for making me look like an idiot in front of the entire nation, by the way. Why didn’t you tell me you were in the Air Force with Scott?”

The look he gave felt rather like a slap in the face. “I kind of thought it was obvious. Did you see my haircut when we met? I have to leave at the butt crack of dawn every morning to get to base, and I’m way too familiar with Archduke Dicklicking over there. Seriously, what the hell did you think I did with my non-Derek time?”

“I thought you were still in high school,” he admitted. 

Stiles looked at him a moment before laughing. “Seriously?”

“Yes, I know it was stupid. But you talked about Lydia going to your school like you were still there. You said you play lacrosse -- present tense, play.”

“For the inter-military competitions,” he said as if it was common knowledge. “Jesus, Derek, do you pay any attention to your own country at all? That shit is huge on TV every season.”

“That’s true. I have money on the Navy this year,” his father commented. “Also, don’t swear. It’s common.”

“Sorry,” Stiles replied reflexively before his mouth dropped. “Navy? Are you kidding me?”

“They have a very strong line,” Wesley insisted. 

“Dance us out of earshot, so I can swear about him supporting the worst team ever,” he demanded.

Derek obeyed, taking them across the dance floor.

After a moment, Stiles observed, “You have this look. I’m not sure if its concern or mild constipation.”

“Confusion,” Derek corrected. “I’m really not sure how I’m this humiliated and amused at the same time.”

“Because Stiles Stilinski is involved, that’s how.”

“Oh, well, that explains everything, doesn’t it?”

The violins drew out the final note as Derek brought them to a stop. He took a step back and bowed to his partner, who did the same, and they were met by the most enthusiastic applause he had ever heard at such a function. Stiles glanced at the attendees then back at Derek. “Is that response normal?”

“Not at all.”

“It must be for my dead sexy uniform,” Stiles decided, tugging the jacket smooth and smiling at the woman approaching him with a ravenous look in her eye. 

“And you were worried about not having partners,” Derek said, trying not to let the jealousy tinge his smile. If he could have gotten away with it, he would sweep the man up in the next dance and all that followed. If protocol permitted it, he would have danced every dance for the rest of his life with only Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was the big reveal?   
> Did you like their first official dance?   
> If Stiles gave Derek a personalized ringtone... what would it be?


	21. Family Trait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek learns a thing or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I nearly forgot to post this! I was so caught up in DragonCon prep that it completely slipped my mind until I got the AO3 'you've got kudos' email. FYI, two more kudos for me. :)  
> Anyone coming to [DragonCon](http://dragoncon.org/) this year?

21: Family Trait

“This one.”

“What? No, this one.”

Laura pushed her morning edition across the table, laying it over the paper Cora had thrown in his direction. Either one just another of many on the stack in front of him.

Nine newspapers. Faron only had three daily publications, yet there were nine on the table with his and Stiles’s photo on the front page. He looked at the paper whose photographer Laura felt captured the best shot of them together. Hers was of them smiling in a quiet moment of their dance. Cora’s had them laughing like idiots when they both wanted to lead. While the words in each article were unique, the tone was universally one of humor because from the outside that’s what their dance had looked like, just a joke between friends. The photographers couldn’t see his heart racing. The journalists couldn’t know how desperately he wanted to kiss the man in his arms.

Stiles, who danced with nearly every woman that asked, sometimes two inside the same waltz, still found time to slip away for moments with Derek throughout the night. More than once, he laughed at him for the partners he had been subjected to, women of wealth and title though not always of beauty or charm.

‘That pretty face is wasted as a prince. Look at the girls I get to dance with,’ he had crowed, making Derek sick with jealousy. Just not in the way he had intended.

He could see them flirting, fingers trailing the necklines of their dresses trying to draw his eye down. Derek was too busy fulfilling his obligations to know if Stiles had looked. He did know that Stiles stopped finding him shortly after midnight. He knew that he couldn’t see him anywhere in the ballroom as of that point. He knew that he didn’t spend the night or find Derek when he left the palace. What was there to conclude but that he had looked? One of those girls he was so proud to have danced with had caught his eye, and she had taken him home.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. A few brief moments that were likely his imagination combined with wishful thinking aside, and he had zero evidence that Stiles was interested in him. He had concluded weeks ago -- months, really -- that the man was straight, so this shouldn’t shock him.

Yet it did.

Yes, Stiles was straight, but he was also in love with Lydia. Unswervingly so. Even if those women were throwing themselves at him, he should still only have eyes for the petite, green-eyed genius. Anything less than a complete refusal of their advances would have made Derek think less of him.

Yet he wasn’t answering his texts.

The last time this happened, he had forgotten his phone, but Derek had seen him slip it into his pocket close to midnight before being approached by a blonde. That was the last he saw of the man before he disappeared. No, he had his phone; he was just too busy to answer.

“What do you think, Derek?” Laura asked, forcing him to look at the brief moment of happiness captured and printed for all to see.

“Whatever. They’re both fine.” He pushed away from the table before either of his sisters could press him further.

It had been stupid of him to even think there might have been a chance. He had focused so intensely on the boy’s age as a reason to stay away, he hadn’t bothered caring that he wasn’t even interested in men. Stiles was never going to be his. Not ever.

He stumbled into his rooms, wrapping his fingers around the top of the table just inside the door. He intended only to anchor himself, but instead he sent it flying across the room, the vase that rested on it shattering against the floor. A mirror followed. Paintings, chairs, curtains, even the armoire all went flying. If he could lift it or knock it down, down it went. Nothing survived except the dogs, which hid under the bed until he crumbled to the floor, rage depleted and with nothing left to throw. Perfect creatures that they were, they trotted cautiously to him and curled into his sides, warm, comforting weight when he needed it most.

“I should just stay away from people,” he decided. “Dogs are better.”

“They do shed rather more than is necessary in my opinion, your grace.”

Derek swallowed a curse. He had forgotten the ancient tailor was coming to collect their clothes to repair the inevitable damage that followed a night-long ball. “Tobias, I’m sorry. I--”

“You were having a moment, your grace,” the old man said with a wave of his always-steady hand. “No need to explain. Your grandfather had them often, especially when his favorite was away.”

“His what?”

“The Admiral,” he said as if it were common knowledge.

“I’m confused.”

“Your grace, did no one ever tell you his royal majesty was -- oh, how can I put it delicately? -- less than eager for the company of ladies?” he looked down at Derek with milky eyes and earnest concern.

“No,” he muttered. “Wait, you’re saying grandfather was _gay_?”

“Such things were not discussed openly at the time, your grace,” the man replied apologetically. “Especially by or about a man of your grandfather’s standing. Kings have responsibilities, as I’m sure you are aware.”

He stared at this frail old man, wondering what other secrets he had hidden away inside the pockets of his bespoke suit. “Who was it?”

“The Admiral? I can show you, your grace. If you’ll follow me. Mind the glass,” he said, sidestepping the shards of mirror, crystal, and furniture Derek had left across the reception room floor.

Following him through the palace, he felt as if his home had become someplace entirely new. Two people he thought he had known so well had surprised him in the past few hours. Admittedly, his grandfather had been dead since before he was born, so there were bound to be a few things he didn’t know about the man. He glanced up at King Derek’s portrait as they passed through the Royal Gallery. They shared one more thing than he had realized. Two if one counted a predilection for military men as separate from wanting men in general.

“Here he is, your grace,” Tobias said gesturing to a modestly-sized portrait. “Admiral Gregory T. Crowley of the Royal Faron Navy. I’m told he was of aristocratic stock on his mother’s side, though I don’t know if people simply said that to make him appear of a higher status than he truly was. It was bad enough that a king would choose a male consort, but to choose a commoner, that couldn’t be supported.”

Given the likeness between himself and his grandfather, Derek had expected the Admiral to resemble Stiles, but he didn’t. He did have brown eyes, but they were considerably darker, nearly black. Coffee eyes versus the golden whiskey of Stiles’s. His hair was blond, skin tanned nearly to leather, probably from so much time out at sea. “Was he away often?”

“Far more than his royal majesty liked. The staff knew to hide anything valuable or overly delicate whenever he received orders to sail,” he replied in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Why didn’t he just stop that order being given? He was king.”

Tobias offered him a look that bordered on scathing. “Such abuse of power would have been beneath him. Your grandfather never put himself before his country.”

“No, right, of course not. So my grandfather was gay,” he said. “At least he found someone who loved him back. Lucky bastard.”

“Oh, I think your grace is far better off.”

“Stiles doesn’t love me, Tobias.”

“I beg your grace’s pardon, but that is complete horse shit,” the old man insisted. “I have worked for this family for three generations, seen countless dramas unfold both upstairs and down. I know love when I see it.”

“Not the kind of love I’m after, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps,” he said in a tone that implied he knew better. “Regardless, your grace is still better off. Her royal majesty saw to that.”

He nodded his agreement. Faron was well-known for having the most forward thinking stance on gay marriage in Europe, possibly in the entire world. Within five years of becoming Queen, Talia had created a law recognizing same-sex marriages and allowing people of all orientations to serve in Faron armed forces. It had not been a popular decision at the time, but she weathered the storm and made their country all the better for it. “Had it all been for them? Because they had to hide?”

“Perhaps it was for your grace,” he suggested, patting his arm gently. “Now, where have you left your suit, young man?”

“Back in my rooms. I’ll get it.”

He looked at Admiral Crowley once more before going to collect his suit. He looked at him before the meeting with the US trade envoy. Again before dinner. Sometime in the night he woke and went down to look at him again. He wondered what he had sounded like, if he was glib or raucous or possibly a quiet man. King Derek, he had been told, was a loud, boastful sort of man. A quiet companion would have suited him. Opposites attracted, after all. Unlikely combinations were often the best.

Rather a lot of his spare time that week was spent contemplating Crowley, his grandfather, their relationship, and what it meant for him. The conclusion he came to was that it meant very little. His grandfather had found a man who loved him. Derek still had no one. With that depressingly accurate assessment, he went back to work learning the business of Faron. He wasn’t going to be a king, but he would always be a part of the country’s government, an aide and ear to the Queen. He wanted to be a better one that Talia’s brother had been. He wanted to be useful and competent, even if he had no one to share his accomplishments with.

“You’re rather dedicated lately,” Laura observed. “I think I saw you actually paying attention when the ambassador was speaking.”

“Difficult to imagine, I know,” he said.

She touched his arm. It was enough to hold him in place, though he would have preferred to flee the troubled look on her face; it had not passed since he first noticed it a week ago. He was starting to think that he was to blame for that shadow of concern she and their parents were wearing. “Derek, talk to me. Something is different.”

“No, actually, everything is exactly the same. It just took me a while to notice that.”

“This is about Stiles, isn’t it? He hasn’t been here since the ball. Did you two have a fight?”

Shaking his head, he took a step away from her. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

The woman gave a frustrated growl and swatted him on the head. “Damn it, Derek, not everything is your fault. If he isn’t into you, he isn’t into you. You move on. You find someone who is.”

“Because that’s been so easy for me in the past.”

“Because you haven’t been trying. You’ve been hiding. Yes, we all liked Stiles, but that just proves that it’s possible. It’s going to take time, trials, errors. Get out and fail. Try again and fail better. I think the fact that this one didn’t work out and no one is in the hospital is proof that your failures are improving. Maybe next time you won’t even fail at all,” she insisted. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He bit out an annoyed affirmation.

“God, you haven’t changed at all. You’ve always been a stubborn pain in the ass. You’re just taller now,” she griped, muttering under her breath as she stomped ever so gracefully away.

Worse than knowing she was right, was hearing her talk so warmly of Stiles. That man had disappointed him, and Derek wanted to hate him for it. He wanted everyone to hate him for it. He was happy when at least one person spoke bitterly of him. The source was slightly surprising, but he would take what he could get.

“I really don’t appreciate this, your grace,” Lydia Martin said tightly, the honorific sounding like a curse word. She stood, flanked by assistants typing rapidly into their phones and tablets, arms crossed and face impassive as she looked down at him.

“Whatever I did, I didn’t do it,” he sighed and pushed himself off the couch. At least if he had some height on the woman, she might be less inclined to slap him.

“Stiles,” she bit out the name.

“I definitely didn’t do that.”

“I sent him to you because I knew he would actually get the job done without needing me to hold his hand and leave me with one less thing to deal with. He’s annoying, but he’s reliable. But you,” she pressed a flawlessly manicured fingernail into his sternum, “apparently broke him. I do not appreciate that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s not answering his phone. He’s not replying to texts. Who do you think has to take on all his responsibility now?” she demanded.

Derek gestured to either of the women behind her.

“Please, I wouldn’t trust them to tie my shoes. They take orders. Stiles has a brain. Or at least he did until you broke him. Now give him back so I can re-wrap him around my finger and get this bicentennial done.” She held out her hand as if he might place the man in her palm.

“He’s not here,” he admitted.

“What are you talking about? He’s always here.”

“Not since the ball Saturday. He went home with some rich socialite.”

A scathing laugh burst from her glossy lips. “You’re joking, right? Have you met Stiles?”

“Have you seen him in uniform? They were all over him.”

“Oh, that I don’t doubt, but that’s not what I meant.” Her supposedly perfect green eyes narrowed as she studied him, that brilliant mind reducing what she saw to some equation that made sense only to her. “You are adorably ignorant, your grace.”

“Thank you?”

“Listen, if Stiles isn’t answering _my_ texts, then there is a problem. And I would wager that problem is massive. Possibly even life threatening. If I were you, I would call Scott.” With that, she tossed a curl over her shoulder as if signaling the end of their discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more for the playlist  
> Paloma Faith - [Only Love Can Hurt Like This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09F4s4GQd2M)


	22. Where It Began

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a phone call is made and a name is finally said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the playlist:  
> Bastille - [Bad Blood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qoNYlV07Cf8)

22: Where it Began  
If there was one thing Derek Hale was good at, it was doing what he was told. He had eight years of practice following orders and sticking to the designated path. Lydia said to call Scott. So Derek called Scott.

“Hello?”

“It’s Derek,” he said.

“Oh, thank god,” the man said, sounding so young and lost it was terrifying. “Stiles isn’t answering his phone.”

“I know, that’s why I’m calling.”

There was a pause. “He isn’t with you?”

He sighed, growing annoyed by everyone's assumptions. “No.”

“Shit. This is bad.”

“When did you last hear from him?” Derek asked.

“Before the ball. He was freaking out about making an ass of himself in front of everyone. You?”

“At the ball,” he said, voice hard as he realized that there really was a problem. If the man wasn’t responding to either the woman of his dreams or his best friend, Derek knew he was in trouble. “Have you called the hospital?”

“Dude, my mom works there. She’d tell me if Stiles was rolled in.”

“Police?”

“His dad is chief of police,” Scott said. “He’d tell me, too.”

He fell silent as he realized how well situated the man was if ever there were a problem in the city; he had eyes and ears in any location where trouble might be taken. “Deucalion?”

“That asshole is getting ready to court martial him for not showing up on base all week. I told him that Stiles would rather cut off his arm than give up flying, but Deucalion hates him.”

Derek knew both of those statements to be true. Stiles never had a kind word to say about the Archduke. Stiles also loved flying more than anything; he had spent two weeks in January trying to convince Derek that he needed to board a plane with him. He had brought a laptop full of statistics, charts, and educational cartoons about aerodynamics to try to sway him. It didn’t work.

“Where else is there?” Derek asked.

“If he isn’t with you, then I don’t know where he’d be. I’m really freaking out.”

“Me, too,” he admitted. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Just find him, man. He’s my brother.”

He stared at the screen, at the photo of Stiles beside his phone number.

“Sir?”

He looked from his phone to see his assistant standing by his side. Daniel studied him, eyes clouded with concern, though his face was carefully blank.

“Stiles is missing,” he informed him.

“Are you sure he isn’t just--”

“He’s not answering _Lydia’s_ calls.”

“Oh. That is bad.” He was silent a moment. “Do you know his phone’s IP address?”

“Why in the hell would I know that?”

“Because you’re in love with him, and people in love know really weird things about each other,” he stated. “I’ll see if I can find out what it is. If I can, I’ll be able to locate his phone and maybe him. In the meantime, do you know who saw him last?”

“I didn’t even know he was missing,” he muttered, hating himself for letting jealousy blind him to whatever danger Stiles had found himself in. “How could I not have known that?”

“Sir, focus,” Daniel prompted harshly. “Who saw Stiles last?”

Derek’s brows folded together as he thought. “I saw him with Antoine’s daughter. What’s her name? The blonde one.”

“Margery,” he supplied. “I’ll make a call.”

And he did. He called Margery Lassiter, who directed him to Evangeline Dinsmore, who passed him on to Seraphina Portsmith, who was extremely annoyed at having been spurned for a whelp as common as Tamora Monroe. The look on Daniel’s face upon hearing that name spoke more than he did. It was the same haunted look that he knew from his parents’ faces, from Laura’s. That was the shadow left by a very worrisome secret.

It was a secret he refused to allow them to keep from him any longer.

“What is going on?” he demanded. “What isn’t everyone telling me?”

Daniel glanced around the room before leaning in and quietly asking, “Do you remember Plan B, sir? For the city council meeting? In case reason didn’t work?”

“Blackmail. You didn’t. Did you?”

He shook his head. “No, sir, but I did hack their servers just in case. Monroe’s included. She was involved in a number of email conversations regarding you and Stiles.” He fell silent, though it was obvious there was more.

“And?”

“And bank transactions. Sizeable sums by common standards. Always following those emails. There was another, much larger deposit the night before the ball.”

“Who was sending the money?”

“Dummy corporations inside of other dummy corporations,” he said. “It took me until last week to track the source.”

“And?”

“It’s Gerard Argent.”

The world dimmed and grew fuzzy around the edges. “How…”

“That isn’t all, sir,” Daniel continued, though Derek truly wished he wouldn’t. “I’m really not supposed to say anything. Her Majesty was quite insistent that you remain unaware, but I’m afraid it might be related to Stiles disappearing. It’s that woman,” he paused long enough for Derek to know he wasn’t referring to Monroe, “she free.”

“Are you sure?”

“The report came in nearly six weeks ago. She escaped Eichen House. The gendarmes know she couldn’t have done it without help on the outside. They suspect her father had a hand in it, but they haven’t managed to find him yet.”

“They won’t,” he said, remembering the man all too well. Gerard Argent played the doddering old fool well, but he was as calculating a villain as they came. “No one has contacted my parents? About her? About Stiles?”

Daniel made a helpless gesture. “I couldn’t say, sir.”

“Stop calling me that,” he spat. The honorific grated on his nerves on his best days; today was far from his best, and he needed the man to stop addressing him with such unwarranted respect.

When it was clear his secretary had no further news to divulge, Derek ran from his rooms. It was undignified to run, his parents had always insisted, but he didn’t care. He needed answers, and he needed them immediately. He pushed through the doors of the study, startling his mother and interrupting whatever business dealings she was discussing with the man opposite her at the desk.

“Derek, what do you think you’re doing?”

“When were you going to tell me about her?” he demanded with equal authority. It was a harsh, hard tone he so rarely used, his mother actually took a step to distance herself from him.

“When there was a need,” she said, softer this time but no less insistent. “There wasn’t one yet.”

“There is now, or have you not been monitoring my secretary’s tablet? Stiles is missing. Last seen dancing with Monroe. You remember her? The woman that vowed to have you deposed as violently as possible. The woman who has been taking bribes from Gerard.”

“How do you know that?” the man asked, voice deep and eyes piercing as he looked at Derek.

“Who are you?”

“Christopher Argent,” he said.

“That woman’s brother,” Talia said, speaking over Derek’s outrage. “He was in America with his family when it happened. You know we wouldn’t have allowed him in if we weren’t sure of his intentions and mental stability.”

He glared his impotent rage at the man, seeing only _her_ in his blue eyes. “Why are you here?”

“To help,” he answered. “This might come as a surprise, but your family wasn’t the only one that suffered when my sister’s obsession turned violent. I’d like to redeem my family’s name. It had honor once.” Derek wanted to say that the man sounded sincere, but his sister had, too. It took more than a steady gaze and calm voice to win his trust after what she had done to him.

“He thinks he might know where she’s hiding,” Talia offered.

The man shook his head. “If she really does have Stiles, then that changes things. My father wouldn’t have taken him unless he saw an advantage in it.” He stared down at the maps and photos littering the desk. “I don’t understand what Gerard is waiting for.”

Derek did. Unlike all those around him, he understood that it wasn’t Gerard they were dealing with. The old man might have financed and facilitated both his daughter’s escape and Stiles’s abduction, but he wasn’t the one moving the pieces on the board. She was the one who was leading this charge. Unless her motivations had severely shifted course in the past eight years, then there was only one thing she wanted and only one person capable of giving it to her. Stiles was merely the bait.

“I have an appointment. Excuse me,” Derek said, voice calm and face impassive.

“Derek,” his mother called. “I want you to stay in the palace. We’ll take care of this.”

“Like you took care of Stiles?” he needled, anger carefully, though barely, concealed. “He would be here now if you had told me this was happening. I could have warned him. You were so busy worrying about me, you didn’t even think about him, did you?”

“It was a calculated risk. We were trying not to draw her attention to him and his connection to you by having him guarded.”

He bit back his bitter diatribes and left, knowing what needed to be done.

“Sir?”

“Don’t call me that,” he ordered.

“Sorry,” Daniel apologized, racing to keep pace with him. “What’s happening?”

“I need your phone.” He watched the man pull the sleek black secure phone from his pocket. “Your other phone. The one my parents can’t trace.”

“Why would you need that?”

“I’m going to do something stupid,” he admitted.

Daniel considered him, holding his personal phone just out of reach. “How stupid are we talking?”

He breathed a pained laugh. “Invading Russia during winter.”

“That is pretty stupid,” Daniel agreed as he gave him the phone. “Who are you calling?”

“That woman.”

He dialed her phone number. Even after eight years, he still remembered it. He had called it in secret often enough when he was younger, just to hear her voice, the promises she would make, and words of condolence for his tiny, teenage problems. After all this time, he didn’t even know if it would still connect.

It did.

It rang.

And the voice on the other end of the line sounded exactly as it had eight years ago. “Hello, Derek.”

“Kate.”

Not once since learning just how deranged she truly was had he said her name. No one had. It had gotten to the point that he wouldn’t even allow himself to _think_ her name; she was simply ‘that woman’.

“Sweetie, you don’t sound so good,” she purred in his ear. It had once thrilled him to hear that seductive lilt.

“I think you know why.”

“I might have an idea.” He could hear the smile in her voice, knew the precise curve of her mouth even though he couldn’t see it. “This new toy of yours is kind of disappointing if I’m being honest.” There was a sharp snap that sounded almost like a whip. It was followed almost instantaneously by a scream and a very colorful curse. His stomach dropped when he recognized that agonized voice. Stiles.

“Where are you?”

“Where it all began, sweetie. The welcome mat is down, and the kettle is on. Why don’t you come by for a visit? You might want to hurry before this one gets worn out.”

The call disconnected on a scream that had tears welling in his eyes and sickness clawing up his throat. He stared down at the phone in his hands, contemplating his options. There were very few.

He considered her words.

‘Where it all began.’

It began at a party thrown at the Faron embassy in Paris, his first real party outside of their country. She had been there, daughter of a prominent businessman and local politician, carrying an old name from before the time when being an aristocrat in France was hazardous to one's health. At the time she was everything he thought he wanted -- beautiful, powerful, fierce -- and she knew it. She had led him around that party as if he was her pet, and he followed her willingly. Followed her to the seat of their family’s name.

That was where it really began. Where she took him, unmade him, corrupted him.

“Call Deucalion. Tell him I’m requisitioning a helicopter. Have Scott fly it here inside an hour.”

Even as he dialed the number, Daniel questioned his decision. “Are you sure? You hate flying.”

“I hate losing Stiles more.”

“We’ll have to file a flight plan,” Daniel reminded him. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Côte d'Argent,” he said. “Where it began.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guessed kidnapping, good job! You win the kudos points!   
> If you thought it but didn't put it in a comment... No kudos points for you!
> 
> Wikipedia tells me that Côte d'Argent is a tourist-invented name, but I can't find more information on when that name came about. So for the purposes of our story, let's pretend that this is also some play on the name silver like they had on the show, shall we?


	23. Overcoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a fear is not so much conquered as temporarily ignored in the face of a greater fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential trigger warning in End Note.
> 
> Two songs for Kate:  
> Kovacs - [50 Shades of Black](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sJJSzECNtQs)  
> Sam Tinnesz (ft. Yacht Money)- [Play with Fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yzVQkO92wNw)

23: Overcoming  
Twenty minutes. That’s how long Derek stalked the grounds pretending to walk the dogs. Really, he was waiting to hear the terrifying snap of the helicopter’s blades cutting through the air, that deafening crack of the blades breaking the sound barrier, the whir of the engine that could easily fail and send him plummeting down. When he heard them, they sounded less like his worst nightmare and more like hope.

“Time to go,” Daniel said, taking hold of the leashes and pressing a bundle into his hands. “Call it a good luck charm.”

Derek didn’t have time to question him; he just accepted what he given and ran toward the embodiment of his irrational fear. He dared a glance back at the palace as he did. The unexpected arrival of the helicopter was drawing no small amount of attention from the household. Groundskeepers were pausing in their work, and he could see his sisters and parents looking out the windows above. Realization lit on his mother’s face as he raced across the lawn; he could see her yelling and knew she was calling to the guards.

“Go!” he shouted into the headset as he slipped it on and dove into the seat behind the pilot. “Go before she orders you to land.”

“You got it,” Scott replied, hitting about eighteen switches and buttons, one of which looked suspiciously like the radio volume knob. His stomach lurched into his spine as they took to the air. “Stiles said you’re afraid to fly.”

“Stiles is right.” He clenched his eyes tight and gripped the door handle so hard he expected to hear it crack.

“You must really love him,” the man commented. “I’m cool with it, by the way. The two of you.”

“Thank you, but please pay attention to the piloting. I really don’t want to die up here. Cora said she would make sure my monument read ‘I told you so’ if it ever happened, and that is not what I want to be remembered for.”

He laughed into his headset, “She and Stiles must get on great, then.”

“Sometimes,” he said.

Silence fell between them as Scott navigated a path up and over the trees and away from the Mediterranean coast. His fingers were going numb from squeezing the handle, so he loosened his hold. Slowly, he let go entirely. After a time, he even opened his eyes. He couldn’t look out the windows, so he focused on the bundle lying in his lap. Small, black, and tied with a length of white kitchen twine, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. The bow came undone easily, and the black fabric unrolled revealing a shirt. A plaid shirt. Miguel.

Derek hugged it to his chest and stared at the instrument panel, still too scared to let his eyes focus anywhere else.

“So who has him?” Scott questioned.

He shook his head. “No one you would know.”

“Tell me anyway, so I know who to curse,” he insisted as he directed the craft northward.

“Their name is Argent, but--”

“Wait, like Gerard Argent?” He glanced back at him, eyes huge and face pulled tight with anger.

“How could you possibly know that name?”

“I’m dating his granddaughter,” he informed him. “That lunatic tried to kill me.”

Derek found that hard to believe and admitted as much. “I think you’re exaggerating slightly.”

“I am not exaggerating a knife in my ribs and a threat to put it in mom if I didn’t stop seeing her,” the man practically shouted. “That asshole is crazy. If he’s the one who took Stiles, then we have to save him.”

“Not him. His daughter,” he paused before saying her name, “Kate.”

“She as bad as him?”

“Worse.”

“Shit.” He threw a few more switches and set the helicopter to moving just that much faster.

“Just so you know, if he dies, I’m totally blaming you.”

“So will I,” he muttered, hugging Miguel tighter, willing the craft to make better time.

Despite all that happened there, the Côte d'Argent was still one of the most beautiful stretches of land Derek had been privileged to visit. Coastal waters always appealed to him. They made him think of grand escapes and real freedom. It was part of why he enjoyed coming here so much; she being the other part.

The helicopter was brought to a soft landing on the grass behind the Argents’ former home. As the blades slowed overhead, he and Scott disembarked and stood studying the chateau. It had windows on every side overlooking wide expanses of lawn and garden. Despite it being rarely used by the family, the chateau grounds had once been manicured and arranged with absolute precision. In the years the Argents had been forced to exile themselves from their country for fear of extradition, nature had taken over. Every plant grew wild and free. Still there was not a single tree wide enough to hide their approach.

Scott cursed as he surveyed the terrain. “We don’t exactly have the element of surprise.”

“We were never going to,” Derek said. “She always knew I was coming. That was the whole point.”

“So what do we do?” he asked.

He considered their options. There really were none. “You stay close to the helicopter. I’ll send Stiles out. Leave as soon as he boards.”

“How? What are you going to do?”

He paused, though there was no reason to. From the moment he heard Stiles’s tortured scream through the phone, he had known what he was willing to do to save him. “I’ll do what I have to.”

He didn’t give the man time to question his decision or demand explanation. He moved toward the house he had once known as well as his own, remembering every minute of his time there and finally seeing the trap for what it had always been. Avoiding the squeaking floorboard just inside the door, he moved through the entrance hall. The walls had been a pristine white when he last saw them. Now they were stained with filth and fingerprints. The floors no longer shone; they were littered with dust, leaves, and a myriad of broken bottles. When he last set foot here, an army of maids had kept the place immaculate and smelling of roses. Now it stank of urine and stale beer. He passed through the formal sitting room, where the furniture lay beneath abandoned sleeping bags and sheets stained with more than just age. The windows were broken, walls coated in graffiti.

Kate must have been livid when she saw what someone dared do to her house. Derek found that wonderfully ironic.

The chateau was only half the size of his home, but it still left too many rooms to search. He wished there had been time for Daniel to trace the man’s phone. Certain it was a stupid idea, he took out his phone and called Stiles. Only a moment passed before he heard the discordant notes of a guitar echoing through the ruined rooms. He followed the sound of sultry singing through to the dining room. In normal circumstances, he would have taken a moment to wonder about Stiles’s choice of ringtone, but he didn’t have that luxury. The sound of the man singing ended as Derek stood frozen in the doorway.

“Hello, sweetie.”

Derek fought to keep his face unreadable as he stared at the woman who had stolen the last of his childhood from him. Kate Argent, just as beautiful and fierce as she had been eight years earlier. The battered and bloody captive tied to the chair beside her was evidence enough she was just as insane, too.

“Have a seat, Derek. My guest and I were just having a little chat.”

He couldn’t move.

“Perhaps you don’t want to sit without a formal introduction,” the woman suggested, turning the beaten face to look his way. “Derek Hale, Prince of Faron, please meet Ms. Tamora Monroe, firebrand and traitor. I’m told you’ve met, but maybe you didn’t recognize her out of context.”

Her face was so swollen and bruised, he likely never would have known the creature was the combative Tamora Monroe if Kate hadn’t said the name. It seemed her alliance with the Argents had not turned out quite as planned. He wasn’t given time to ruminate on the woman’s appallingly fitting punishment for helping kidnap Stiles before a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, pushing him toward a seat. Derek fell hard on the chair, glaring at the massive man now standing threateningly over him.

That woman laughed at his surprise. Her eyes were just as cold as he remembered, though he had once likened them to the limpid waters of the lake near his summer home. What an idiot he had been not to recognize them for the icy, calculating eyes of the hard bitch she really was.

“You didn’t think I’d be stupid enough to do this alone, did you?” Kate questioned, smiling at him as she always used to; he had seen affection in that smile once, now he saw only condescension. “That was always your problem. You never did play well with others. That’s what made it so easy to isolate you. Lone wolves don’t survive, Derek.”

“What do you think you’re doing, Kate?”

“Monroe betrayed you,” Kate replied. “I heard what she said about you at that meeting, listened to her radio interviews, read her Op-Eds. She openly defies your authority, rails against your rule. She’s dangerous. I had to stop her before she could hurt you.”

He stared at the damaged face; the last time he had seen her, Monroe was shouting her intent to have him and his family exiled or imprisoned. “You did this for me?”

“For the entire country.” She always had a way of sounding soft, even now when he knew how hard her words really were. “You know she wouldn’t have stopped with just your family. She wouldn’t have been happy until every aristocrat was torn down to her level.”

“Stop talking to me like a politician,” he demanded. “You will never convince me of your cause.”

The look on her face darkened, her smile twisting into something feral. “Fine, I’ll convince you of someone else’s: Stilinski’s.”

“Where is he?”

“Your favorite room,” she replied, pointing toward the ceiling.

At the gesture, the lights dimmed and a scream echoed through the house.

“We’d better hurry. There might not be much of him left.”

Just as in the past, he followed where she led -- up the stairs, along the corridor, turn right, and there was the door to her rooms. The path was burned into his memory, as was her bedroom. It had the most spectacular view in the entire chateau. Derek knew because he had spent more hours there than he cared to admit, always wishing for more. Back then he had thought her world perfect, and when he was with her there was nothing he wanted for. No one made demands of him. He could simply lie in her bed, tangled in her sheets, and bask in her beauty. He hated himself for it now.

She moved past the bed, still exactly where it had been when he last lay in it, though the satin sheets had long since been torn away. The curtains over the windows were tattered and moth-eaten, thrown aside or ripped from their rods to let the light in through the wide, broken windows. That light bathed the woman he once thought himself in love with as she stroked the sweat and blood beading on Stiles’ skin.

The years had changed them both, but they seemed to have hardened her. Or perhaps what softness she possessed had burned away since he saw her last, leaving only her true shape. For eight years he had been terrified to say her name; he certainly hadn’t allowed himself to picture her as she had been or as she might have become. If he had permitted it, he likely would have imagined something very like what stood before him. A beautiful, horrible woman. If he had thought to embellish the image of her with something so macabre as a man suspended from her ceiling, that man would have been him. Not Stiles. Never Stiles.

Stiles was never meant to know about Kate, yet there he was with her fingers on his chest.

“I have to say, Derek, you sure did grow up in all the right places. I almost didn’t recognize your photo when Gerard sent it to me.” She glanced at her laptop, considering the picture on the screen. It was him and Stiles on the day they adopted Chicken and Waffles. He remembered how the boy’s eagerness had faltered when he learned about that photograph; he had been right to worry. Realization must have lit across his face because she said, “See, this is why I’ve always loathed sentimental crap. It just gets you into trouble.”

“You used to like it,” he commented quietly.

“No, you did, so I made an effort,” she corrected. “It seemed worth it. You know, I do think back fondly on our times together. I like to think you do, too.”

“Yeah, they were great,” he agreed, jaw tight from the effort of holding back his fury. “Like that time you tried to burn my family alive. I think about that one constantly.”

There wasn’t the slightest trace of remorse in her eyes or face or voice. Quite the contrary, she groaned in exasperation as if tired of some unending debate. “I was trying to help you reach your potential. You could have been so much more than… this.”

“And what are you trying to do now?” he demanded, looking away from her to Stiles, to the wale across his cheek leaking blood down his face, to the angry red burns on his wrists where the ropes were cutting into the skin, the bruises littering his entire torso but especially his ribs, the wires affixed with medical tape to his side. He was in better shape than Monroe, but, after five days of being subjected to her psychotic whims, it looked like he was barely alive. How much sooner could Derek have found him if jealousy hadn’t blinded him? Laura was right; he hadn’t changed. He was still that same, stupid teenager.

Derek tore his eyes away from him. “What’s the point of this? Don’t pretend this is for us.”

“To win, sweetie. It’s always about winning. I’m not going to let this one beat me. That picture was a challenge, and I accepted it.” Her fingers trailed across the boy’s stomach to the wires, curling around them and following them to their source – the light switch on the far wall; the faceplate had been removed, the wires exposed. Derek’s science lessons hadn’t included how much wattage ran through common household circuits, but he would wager if the electricity were allowed to flow long enough, it could probably kill. She smiled again as those fingers played across the switch, just barely twitching and sending the lever up, closing the circuit. The response was immediate; Stiles’s back arched and a scream ripped from him, ragged and torturous to hear.

“He has quite the set of lungs on him, doesn’t he? I bet he’s fun in that echoey old palace of yours. Do you remember how quiet we had to be?”

Loathed to be reminded of any part of him touching her, he grit his teeth and demanded, “Let him go.”

She flicked the switch again, making Stiles shout and Derek flinch against the pain he knew the man must been in. “This is a negotiation, Derek. If you want him to go free, I need something in return.”

He didn’t hesitate before he made his offer. “I’ll stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential Trigger Warning: character tortured/electrocuted (ever so slightly)
> 
> So can you guess Stiles's personalized ringtone for Derek? I nearly made it the chapter title but didn't want to spoil it.


	24. Blink and Miss It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a rescue.

24: Blink and Miss It  
His heart was somehow shrinking down into a hard stone while flinging itself against his ribcage, desperate to break free, to escape, to fly to Stiles. He had said it, made his offer. It was all he had to give. Himself. That woman’s motivations had not changed in eight years, but he couldn’t help the fear that it would not be enough. That _he_ wasn’t enough.

“I’ll stay with you,” he elaborated. His voice dull and distant. “I’ll have the charges dropped. You can have everything you want, if you let him go.”

From the moment Daniel had told him Kate had broken free of her prison and they made the connection with Stiles’s disappearance, he knew. He knew punishing the young man was not her endgame. Stiles was the lure, bright and shiny, meant to ensnare a prince. And it worked. He was here. He had walked willingly into her trap knowing full well what he would need to sacrifice to save the man he loved. It was a price he was more than willing to pay.

Kate’s fingers moved from the gutted electrical box as she stepped closer, approaching not him but Stiles. It was maddening to see her hands on him; Boyd’s platonic pat-down had infuriated him, but this was so much worse. It twisted his gut, set his teeth to grinding that she would dare stretch her palm across his thigh, that she could let that hand linger at his hip and graze across his abdomen, his chest, his nipple, when Derek never allowed himself to touch Stiles while they weren’t asleep. All his years playing the emotionless royal served him well. He managed to keep his face impassive even as that woman bent down and licked the line of bruises on his side.

“You want him to go free?”

“Yes,” he said, not a hint of anger in the word.

She considered him, not sure what she saw. Stiles never once hid his opinions of Derek, calling him all manner of names and praising him when it was appropriate, such a far cry from everyone else that lauded him for simply being born into the right family. Kate was no different than all those countless, nameless others. Even now, she didn’t dare criticize him. He was a prince. Just two heartbeats away from being a king. That was what she cared about. Not Derek. Her next words only proved him right.

“You will stay by my side, and you’ll help me kill your sister,” she demanded. “I will be a queen, Derek. It’s what I was born for.”

He should be been appalled at the suggestion. Surprised if nothing else. Truthfully, there wasn’t a nightmare scenario that he had not already conjured in his darkest days after the fire. The vague mandate was tame compared to the gruesome tortures he had imagined the woman visiting on each member of his family. Still, he tried to find a way to bargain for the lives she was ruining.

There wasn’t one. Her goal was too precise. The necessary costs too exact.

“Fine.”

Her smile was wicked as she moved in to pet his cheek, leaving a damp trail of Stiles’s sweat on his skin. “I love how much you hate me.”

“You have what you want. Now let him go,” he said, trying to keep the vomit from crawling up his throat.

“Take him down,” she ordered, heaving a sigh as she watched her men cut the ropes that held Stiles in place. He crumpled to the filthy carpet, groaning incoherent protests and coughing. Her foot moved swiftly, nudging his side and rolling him onto his back so she could study him.

Stiles offered a whine of protest.

“I really don’t know what you were thinking with this one,” she admitted. “He’s kind of cute, I guess. But no stamina.”

He stood by helplessly as her men hauled Stiles toward the door. He didn’t dare look away. The boy had been his hope and possibly his only real friend, and Derek would likely never see him again. He was going to remember every moment of time with him, even this horrifying encounter. If he could watch him all the way to the helicopter, he would, just to have visual confirmation that he was safe and beyond her reach. It’s because he was so insistent on keeping his eyes locked on Stiles that he saw it.

He had heard of those ‘blink and you miss it’ moments. Events that happened so quickly, so unexpectedly that even a millisecond of distractions meant missing everything. He had heard of them but never seen one. Until today.

One moment Stiles was being dragged, limp and ostensibly unconscious by Kate’s men, the next a man lay on the ground clutching a broken nose, the other grabbing at the wound in his leg, and Stiles had a gun trained on Kate. Derek had watched it happen, but the movements were so rapid, his brain needed time to process what he had seen -- Stiles bracing a knee on the ground, using the leverage to rip his arms free and throw a punch to one man’s face, stealing his gun, and incapacitating the second with a bullet to the thigh.

He stood now, hands steady and face dark, attention focused solely on Kate. This man was not Stiles. Not the spastic, hyperactive Stiles he knew. This was Captain Stilinski of the Royal Faron Air Force, a man he had never before met.

He even spoke different from his Stiles, with a voice as dark as his eyes, as steady as his hands. “I’m going to have to ask you to step away from the prince.”

Kate just eyed him with a sly smile as she slid sideways behind Derek, using him as a shield. “Oh, I think I see why you like this one. I’m not sure if I want to kill him or lick him. What do you think? Can we share? King, Queen, and royal consort. I’m up for it.”

“I’m not going to ask again,” the Captain said.

He could have reached out and touched the tension building between them. Seconds turned to agonizing minutes as neither moved, neither blinked. He didn’t even know Stiles could be still for so long.

It was Kate who finally broke the stalemate.

“While I do love those adorable brown eyes, I’m going to have to say ‘no’.”

Stiles made no reply, just kept those dark eyes on her.

“I mean, I’m not usually one for lunatic comments like ‘if I can’t have him no one can’,” the woman sighed, pulling a gun from the waistband of her jeans and pushing it into Derek’s side. “But if I can’t have him, no one can. He’s mine. I worked too hard to break him to let you steal him away.”

This was not going to end well. How many people were going to end up hurt because he was stupid enough to let this woman into his life? He couldn’t let it go on. He had started it, and he could end it.

“Stiles,” Derek said, drawing his focus away from Kate. “Just go.”

“No!” the man spat.

“Dammit, Stiles, this is not the time for you to be heroic. Just go!”

“Fuck. You. Asshole,” he said. “I’m not leaving you with this nutjob.”

“What the hell?” Kate demanded, digging the gun deeper into his side. “Your prince gave you an order. Follow it.”

He snorted, the old Stiles coming to the fore. “That asshole is an idiot. I don’t have to listen to him. Now, gun down before I put you down.”

Derek didn’t see what she did to make him pull the trigger, what movement she made or indication she might have given that she was actually going to shoot him, but he saw the flash from the muzzle, heard the deafening shot, felt the warm spray of blood across his cheek. And then he was stumbling as Kate fell, clawing at his arm. He stood transfixed watching her gasp in pain and shock, her right arm useless and shoulder shattered.

Stiles kicked her gun away and grabbed his arm, fingers digging into the muscle. “Time to go, your grace.”

He ripped the wires from his side and pulled Derek away, out the door and down the corridor, leading him with certainty toward the front entrance. All those times he had seen Stiles’s eyes dart around rooms, he thought he was just observant and inquisitive, but he knew now the man had been strategizing -- counting doors, windows, exits, calculating distances, and memorizing routes taken. It was no wonder he loved chess.

“Wait,” Derek insisted. “They have Monroe.”

“Good,” he replied, voice tight.

“No, she’s a citizen of Faron and my responsibility.”

“I liked you better when you just raced your fucking car and did stupid shit,” Stiles muttered but followed him through to the dining room and stood guard while he cut the firebrand free. With a muttered apology, Derek hauled the woman onto his shoulder and hurried to leave before Kate or her men recovered enough to pursue them. He didn’t think either was likely, but he wasn’t particularly eager to test that supposition.

As they ran across the lawn, he could see Scott standing guard with his pistol pointed in the general direction of the chateau. He could tell by the man’s stance that there was no immediate threat, but neither of them slowed their pace.

“Dude!” Scott shouted, tucking the gun back into its holster and throwing his arms wide. “You’re not dead!”

“I know! I’m like a cockroach.” Stiles gripped the man, and Derek could feel the love and concern in it.

“You’re bleeding,” Scott commented. “And bruised. And that looks kind of like the burn I got when I tried cutting through that extension cord that time. And you really stink.”

“Yeah, but I’m not dead. So that’s something,” he slapped his friend on the back. “Come on. Let’s go. France sucks. I never want to come back to France again. Ever.”

Scott helped load the barely conscious woman into the helicopter before climbing into the pilot’s seat and starting the blades rotating. The noise was deafening, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the biting sarcasm in his voice when Stiles pointed to the open door and said, “Your grace.”

He knew Stiles was pissed.

“Look, I--”

“Shut up. Get in. I want to leave.”

He obeyed, climbing into the seat, strapping himself in as Stiles did the same, though not without some difficulty. Derek barely felt the helicopter lift from the ground, didn’t notice the landscape below. Stiles was there, damaged but alive. And bitterly silent. The flight took just over an hour, and he said nothing for the length of it. He didn’t say a word until they had crossed into Faron airspace and Scott asked, “Where to?”

He and Derek spoke over one another:  
“Hospital.”  
“The palace.”

“Why the fuck would I go to the palace? I was electrocuted. I want to go to the hospital. I want to see Melissa. I want to hug my dad,” he argued.

“Deaton can--”

“Deaton can suck it,” he shouted. “And so can you. You fucking ridiculous moron. I cannot believe you were going to stay with her. _Her_.”

“She was going to kill you!”

“And your parents. And your sister. And probably you, too, once she knocked off everyone else and got what she wanted. Because she’s _psychotic_. And you stuck your dick in that woman?” He crossed his arms over his chest and grit his teeth at the pain the movement brought him.

“This conversation is making me deeply uncomfortable,” Scott said. “Please just tell me where to land, so I can escape this awkwardness.”

“The palace,” Derek said as if it were final. “Royal orders.”

“Asshole orders,” Stiles muttered.

“Thank god,” the pilot groaned and pointed the helicopter towards the palace, setting it down, and fleeing the moment the engine had been switched off.

“Here,” Derek said, handing him the plaid shirt. “The press has been all over since the start of the bicentennial last week. You don’t need to be in the papers looking like that.”

He snatched Miguel from his hands, throwing it on with a few curses and a mumbled ‘ridiculous’. “Better?”

“No, you still look like five different kinds of shit.”

“Only five? I can do five.” The words were pure Stiles, but the tone was the Captain.

And the Captain was not amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I could have found material enough, I would have loved to end this chapter with a gun trained on Kate. One less cliffhanger in my life, so sad. Le sigh.
> 
> Did you notice how many TW villains I pulled from for Kate's dialogue? I went a little quote happy. Not even a little ashamed.
> 
> One more for the Playlist:  
> Postmodern Jukebox - [Seven Nation Army](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sB6HY8r983c)  
> (for the purists: [The White Stripes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0J2QdDbelmY))


	25. Moment of Intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which doctor's orders must be followed, much to Derek's delight.

25: Moment of Intimacy   
  
The entire excursion had taken less than five hours, yet in that time his mother had managed to alert every branch of the armed forces and gather around her all her military advisors including Stiles’s commanding officer. They were standing, strategizing at her desk when Derek arrived. No one took any notice of him when he entered, so intense was their debate.

“Mother,” he called, causing an immediate hush to fall as the men turned to look at him; he might have found their sour stares intimidating had he not just faced his two worst fears inside a single afternoon. “You can call off your dogs. Stiles and Monroe are with Doctor Deaton now.”

“How in the hell did you manage that?” Deucalion questioned, condescending eyebrow rising with his words.

“You realize you crossed national borders in a military vehicle,” his mother said, her anger and worry coming through with every word. “Some might consider that an act of war. Please tell me you at least had the intelligence not to kill anyone, especially not a French citizen.”

“No. At least I don’t think so. Are bullets to the shoulder lethal?”

“Not generally,” Deucalion supplied.

“Then we’re good.” Derek looked around at the assembled brass.

“Thank you, gentlemen. My office will be in contact should there be any fallout from this incident,” the Queen said, indicating that it was time for them all to leave. They saluted and bowed in their turn until only he, his mother, and Deucalion remained.

“Will Stiles be court martialed?”

The man breathed in a contemplative sigh. “Much as I would enjoy that, no. I, unfortunately, cannot charge him with desertion if he was being held captive by a foreign agent. I can, however, make his life hell for having been abducted in the first place. Won’t that be fun?” He offered a smile and salute before leaving.

“Stiles is right; that man is insufferable,” his mother commented. “Now for you. You are in so much trouble, young man. I can’t even begin to express the amount of charity work you will need to do to redeem yourself in my eyes. Eight years of effort thrown away. Eight years keeping you safe from that woman, and you walk right into her hands. Do you even realize how unbelievably stupid that was? Not to mention dangerous? She could have killed you.”

“She was going to kill Stiles.”

Her fingertips carved circles into her temples. “Derek, I know you care about him, but there are better ways to deal with these situations. Have you learned nothing?”

“Apparently not,” he muttered.

“Fine, go to your rooms. I’ll contemplate punishment when I’m not so angry.”

She was going to disband the race team. It was the only thing he had that she could take away. Not so long ago, the thought of losing his only outlet terrified him. Without the team, he was nothing. That wasn’t the case anymore. He liked racing, but there were other things to occupy his time now. Besides, he was just as much himself when at home with Stiles as he was when strapped in the cockpit of his racecar. His heart stopped at the thought that his mother might take Stiles away. It’s what the boy had feared might happen if Derek’s parents didn’t like him, that he wouldn’t be allowed back. Now it seemed a real possibility.

He moved through the residential wing to Deaton’s quarters, finding the door open and a small party gathered around his patients.

“They’re going to be okay?” Laura demanded.

“There will be no lasting physical damage,” Deaton assured the princess, his voice sedate and all business. “Psychologically, that’s entirely up to them.”

“Not really,” Stiles winced at some combination of his fears and the doctor’s hands pressing into his side. “That’s up to my subconscious and whether it thinks electrode-wielding blondes are more terrifying than permanent blindness.”

“You’re afraid of going blind?” Cora snorted.

“Hey, he’s afraid to fly. How is my worst nightmare any less valid than his?” he demanded pointing toward Derek.

“Losers, the pair of you. At least be afraid of something cool,” she said, slapping him gently on the shoulder.

There was no animosity in Stiles’s eyes as he looked at the girl; the man had spent enough time in Cora’s company to know when she was worried, and the smile he offered her was nothing but reassuring. She blinked her eyes a bit more rapidly than was usual, trying not to let any tears fall.

“Well,” she sniffed. “You survived an attempt on your life by an Argent. Congratulations, you’re officially part of the family now. Buy a bulletproof vest.”

“I already have one.”

She grinned at the door. “Then you’re all set.”

“Your sister is weird,” Stiles commented.

“Stiles!” Laura chided.

“What? I wasn’t talking about you.”

She just shook her head.

He looked to the doctor, who had moved on to pressing his fingers into his other side. “So when can I go home?”

“Unfortunately, that decision is out of my hands,” Deaton said, gesturing to the heir apparent.

“It looks as if that Gerard’s network might be larger than originally thought,” Laura explained, laying a consoling hand on the very same shoulder Cora had smacked. “Mother fears you’ll be targeted for retribution. To be fair, you did shoot that lunatic’s daughter. It’s been decided that the palace is likely the safest place for you. I’m sorry. It really is for the best.” She left him gaping and went to stand by Tamora’s bed.

“I can’t leave?”

Deaton offered a helpless shrug. “Her Majesty said—“

“I want to go home. You know, where my life is,” he insisted, eyes darting to Derek just long enough for him to know the real reason the young man wanted to escape the palace.

“I’ll have the guest suite made up,” Derek offered. It amazed him how steady and indifferent he made himself sound.

“I wouldn’t bother with that, Derek,” the doctor said. “Someone needs to keep an eye on him. I’m volunteering you for the task as he was kind enough to do the same for you.”

He kept his face arranged in his former default mask, afraid of looking too eager at the prospect of Stiles in his room for innumerable days to come. “For how long?”

“For as long as is necessary.”

“That’s fine.”

“At least I don’t snore,” Stiles insisted, leaping from the examination table and cringing at the movement. “Won’t be doing that again anytime soon.”

“The ribs aren’t broken or even severely bruised, I would wager. We’ll have them x-rayed first thing tomorrow to be sure. Just to be on the safe side, however, I would suggest letting Cora take the dogs tonight. We've all suffered thanks to their... enthusiasm,” Deaton said. He offered Derek a wry smile before turning his attention back to Stiles. “I think this is likely only minor tissue damage, which will heal before you know it.”

“Doesn’t make it feel any better in the meantime, doc,” he muttered and accepted the bottle of painkillers the man held out to him. “Am I allowed to drink with these?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it, but if you feel the need.”

“Oh, I do.”

“Then keep Derek close,” he advised.

“Why do you think I’m drinking?” he laughed, but Derek could tell it wasn’t a joke.

They walked in awkward silence the relatively short distance to his rooms. Derek, at least, felt awkward. He wasn’t sure what Stiles was feeling as he was pointedly ignoring the prince. His unnatural quiet hurt more than when he had yelled at him. This felt too like the way everyone else treated him, withholding their true opinions, offering only what they thought he wanted to hear. That wasn't Stiles.

Derek paused at the door, forcing from his lips the offer he truly didn’t mean. “You don’t have to stay with me.”

“Docs orders, right?” he sighed, disappearing through the doorway and cursing loudly. “Shit, where’s all your stuff?”

After nearly a week, Derek had grown accustomed to his empty rooms, but Stiles just stared at the barren reception room; every wall naked; every painting and mirror gone; no decorative vases sat on tabletops, because the tables had fallen victim to Derek’s rage and taken such delicate items with them. The couch remained as did the large circular table where they took their breakfast, though its chairs had been swept away days ago. He was ashamed of himself for what he had let his temper do; all the valuable heirlooms entrusted to him were now little more than scrap. He was left with nothing. It felt an apt metaphor for what had become of his relationship with Stiles. His grand gesture had turned the boy against him.

Stiles looked to him, eyes demanding, voice commanding, “What the hell happened in here?”

“I, uh… I had a moment,” he said, borrowing Tobias’s phrase.

“A moment?” he repeated as if it was the stupidest thing he had ever heard. “What had you this pissed?”

“Doesn’t matter now. I’m over it.”

He stared at Derek for a long beat before shaking his head. “You have issues. Like with the talking and the sharing. You need to work on that.”

A wan smile was the only reply he could give.

Stiles walked through his other rooms, both equally Spartan. He paced, cursing and muttering his disapproval. Derek was sure he was mumbling about more than just the way the prince had treated his possessions. While Stiles made circuits of the rooms, Derek sat on the edge of the bed. The man walked for close to an hour, seemingly unable to burn off his excess energy, pausing periodically to look at Derek as if he had some comment to make. No words ever left his mouth save an occasional, quiet curse.

“How are you still this wired?” he asked.

“Can’t help it. Haven’t had my Adderall in about a week,” Stiles replied dismissively.

“Deaton might have some.”

“I asked. He doesn’t.” He stopped, looking at Derek, whispering a bitter curse, then resumed his pacing, scratching at his scalp and setting his hair on end. “I’m going stir crazy. Cabin fever, that’s what this is. Trapped in this gilded fucking cage”

“You only landed two hours ago.”

“And before that I spent five days tied to a freakin’ chandelier by your nutty ex-girlfriend,” he reminded him baldly. “Care to talk about that?”

“Kate was a mistake.”

He snorted. “Yeah, I’ll say. Any other mistakes I need to worry about? If your crap is going to infiltrate my life, I’d like a little bit of forewarning. I expected cameras and bodyguards, but that was a level of crazy I didn’t quite sign up for when I gave you all the friend points.”

“Not really,” he admitted. “And she’s the only one that would give you nightmares.”

“You sure about that?”

A quiet knock sounded on the door, and the young man’s reaction was instantaneous, terrifying, and inappropriately thrilling. He spun to face the door, his hand reaching for the gun still tucked into the back of his pants, his body moving between Derek and the intruder, shielding the prince from threat. His voice was that of the Captain as he demanded, “Who is it?”

“Justine,” a voice called.

“Who the hell is Justine?” he asked in a whisper.

“My maid. She’s damn near seventy and has a bad heart,” Derek hissed, swatting at the gun. “Put that away before you really do kill someone today.”

Stiles complied, and Derek could hear the safety clicking into place as he pushed the gun back into his waistband.

“Yes, Justine. Come in.”

A tiny, stooped woman hurried in, carrying a small basket into the room and deposited it at the foot of the bed. “Some clothes for you and your gentleman, your grace,” she said, glancing around the room disapprovingly before chiding, “It’s such a shame about the cupboard. You were ever so naughty. I haven’t seen a mess like that since you were a boy.”

“Really?” Stiles questioned with a grin, all traces of the Captain gone. “What else did he get up to?”

The woman laughed. “He used to steal his sister’s party dresses to put on the dogs and let them run around the lawn, such muck they used to bring in! And I remember the one time you brought home that--”

“Yes, thank you, Justine,” Derek said quickly, knowing exactly which incident she was about to mention and desperately wanting to keep Stiles’s from hearing it. “Has there been any word about repairing my rooms?”

“They will be a tad Spartan for a time. I’m not sure if Her Majesty will approve any replacement pieces with you up and flying off to France like that.”

He slumped further down on the bed. “Part of my punishment, I’m sure.”

“You’re getting punished for that? You saved my life!”

“Such a gallant one, our Derek,” the woman cooed and pinched his cheek. She was the only one he allowed to do it, if only because she was the closest thing to a grandmother he ever had. He still glared a warning at Stiles not to laugh. Fat lot of good it did. The man was holding his bruised side in pain even as he cackled.

“Shut up,” Derek whined.

“Soft caramel center.”

“The softest. That’s why he takes such turns. His feeling run deep,” she patted his head and did the same to Stiles. “You ought to lay still. Won’t heal up if you keep on like this.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Stiles grinned, waving to the woman when she wished them a goodnight. “So what did you bring home that one time?”

“A sarcastic pain in my ass that has no respect for my station,” he scowled. “Now shut up, lay down, go to sleep, and heal, so I can slap you without feeling guilty.”

His smile faded at the prospect of sleep, and Derek understood why Stiles had really been pacing; he had been trying to keep himself awake, to avoid falling into dreams. “Later. I need to go wash that woman off me. Sick bitch licked my stomach.”

Revulsion sent a shudder through him as he remembered Kate touching him. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he muttered on his way out the door.

Derek tried to take those words as truth, but he knew they were a lie.

“Hey, Derek,” Stiles called. “Could I get a hand?”

He followed the request to the bathroom, where Stiles was standing in sweat- and blood-stained underwear. Unlike all the other instances when presented with the boy in such a state of undress, Derek’s brain did not seize to a stop. “What’s the matter?”

“Doc said not to get the bandages wet, and I can’t reach my back. I know it’s asking a lot, but,” he muttered apologetically as he held a washcloth toward him.

“No, it’s fine,” Derek insisted, loathed to voice just what he was willing to do for the man. Their fingers touched as the washcloth changed hands; that simple contact was enough to set him on fire, but he didn’t let it show.

“Just my back. The rest I can manage,” Stiles said and turned.

It was the single most intimate experience of his life. Those long hours with Kate had been intensely sexual, but never intimate. He had been too young to know the difference, to know that intimacy required trust and vulnerability, things Kate would never possess or allow herself to be. Damaged and delicate as he was, Stiles knew Derek wouldn’t hurt him. His chest ached with his understanding of their bond. He wanted to lean in, place his lips on the bare and bruised shoulder and hug the man close. Instead, he did what Stiles wanted and let the washcloth glide over the skin of his back, revealing an expanse of moles and injuries.

“Is it bad?” Stiles asked. “It feels bad.”

“Not as bad as I would have thought,” he assured him in a strained voice. “Are you sure you’re all right on your own?”

He hesitated, probably weighing the pain against the awkwardness of having a prince give him a sponge bath. “Yeah, I’ll be done in a minute.”

Stiles was done in seven minutes, exiting the bathroom in an ungainly wobble, dressed only in a pair of freshly laundered boxer shorts, his face unnaturally pale. “I’m going to have to risk offending your delicate, royal sensibilities and say ‘fuck pajamas’. Hurts too much to change. Not worth it.”

“It’s fine,” Derek said, though it really wasn’t. The flimsy underwear was not going to protect Stiles against him.

“You coming to bed?” he asked.

“Later,” Derek replied tightly. “I need to wash that woman off me, too.”

“She barely touched you.” His dismissive scoff was lost in a groan of pain as he lay down. “Oh, I hate your shit taste in women so much right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I saved Monroe. I only watched about 4 episodes of 6b, and she pissed me off for what little I saw. But in the spirit of the show, I opted to save her. It's part of what I love about TW, that enemies become allies, and even the ones that can't be saved can often be understood (aka: she might be a murderess, but I still kind of like Jennifer). 
> 
> For the playlist:  
> Paloma Faith - [Guity](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yDFu4iCpTo8)  
> (not part of the playlist, but since since Guilty is part 2 of a music video series, you might want to check out part 1: [Crybaby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O3mKXSB9G6U&list=RDyDFu4iCpTo8&index=1). )


	26. Words in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which bad dreams are avoided with talking. Lots of talking.

26: Words in the Dark

Stiles was exactly where he belonged: in Derek’s bed, cheek to his chest and arms around his waist. It would have been perfect if his fingers weren’t curled into fists on the back of Derek's shirt, if he wasn’t twitching as if trying to force himself to wake, if he didn’t keep releasing the most heartbreaking whimpers Derek had ever heard. He had been awake for hours feeling the young man shudder and tense in his arms.

Then all once Stiles was bolting upright, screaming, flailing, fighting against some enemy only he could see.

“Stiles! Stiles!” Derek called. He managed to find the boy’s arms, to pressed them into his bruised sides, to wrap his own arms around him and pull him against his chest. “Stiles, it’s me. You’re fine.”

“Derek?” he gasped, voice rough and small and nothing like himself.

“Yes, you’re fine.”

He leaned into him, his fingertips digging into Derek’s forearms as if terrified he might try to pull away. “Don’t let go.”

“Never,” he promised and hugged him closer.

Stiles was still and silent in the dark. Someone else might have thought him asleep, but Derek could tell by the rhythm of his breathing that he was still awake, probably too afraid to fall back into his dreams. “Do you need to tell me about it?”

The shaky laugh that followed broke his heart just a bit more. “ _You_ want to talk? Really?”

“If it helps.”

“Weren’t you the one who said it wouldn’t help?”

“That was before you got involved. You talk incessantly, so you might as well talk about something that actually matters.”

“You first,” he demanded. “Tell me what happened with her.”

His history with Kate as the very last thing he had ever wanted to share with Stiles; he was ashamed of himself for falling prey to such a woman, and he knew Stiles would judge him for it just as everyone else had. But the boy needed to talk, to expel his fear or risk the nightmares getting worse. Derek knew this better than most. While his nightmares were long gone, he didn’t want Stiles to suffer for as many years as he had. So he talked, spilling his secrets out into the night.

“She was the most amazing woman I had ever met,” he admitted. “All those things you told me about Lydia, I thought I saw in her. She was fierce and intelligent, passionate and merciless. I was an arrogant little ass when I was seventeen, and she fed that side of me, made me think I was better than everyone, deserved more, deserved to rule. Wherever I went, she was there. I couldn’t get away from her. Not that I wanted to.” He released a bitter laugh at his own idiocy. “What I didn’t realize at the time was that Gerard had bribed my secretary to gain access to my schedule so he could know exactly where to place his daughter. When he couldn’t buy his way into an event, he would threaten, blackmail, or extort whoever he had to just so he could get her in front of me.”

“Real piece of work,” Stiles commented. “So when did you figure it out?”

“That’s the worst part. I didn’t. My parents did. When they told me, showed me the proof, I refused to believe a word of it. I swore I loved her, that she loved me.” He bit back the choice words he had thrown at his parents, all words he had since used exclusively about himself. “They forbid me from ever seeing her again, but I didn’t listen. I called her in secret, snuck out of school to be with her, lied to my parents for months. I needed her. I needed to be with her. When they caught on, she said she had a way to make sure we stayed together.”

“This sounds a bit too Romeo and Juliet.”

“More along the lines of MacBeth in the end,” he said. “She set fire to the palace.”

Stiles turned slightly in his arms, probably trying to get a look at his face in the darkness. “The whole palace?”

“Just the east wing. It wouldn’t have been bad except she had seduced some hormonal page boy into bolting the doors so my family couldn’t get out.”

“So when you said she had tried to burn your family alive, you weren’t exaggerating.”

“Not even a little. Cora and I were at school, but Laura, my parents, my uncle Peter--”

“You have an uncle?”

“Sort of. He’s in a coma. Has been for the past eight years.”

“Shit. But everyone else is okay, right?”

“They are now. My parents were hospitalized for a month. Laura for half a year. She still has scars on her legs that she’s very careful to keep hidden. All because I let that woman into our lives.”

“Hey,” Stiles said, elbowing him. “Not your fault. She did it. Not you.”

“Doesn’t feel that way.”

“Well, then you need to talk it out some more because I’m right, and you are about as wrong as a person can be. I think I might go so far as to say that I’m always right, and you are never not wrong. So just listen to me from now on.” He gave Derek’s arm a reassuring pat.

“Your turn,” he prompted.

Stiles took a moment before he answered. “Bad dream.”

“I gathered as much. What was it about?”

“Kate.”

“Doing…”

“You. In front of me. And then she took live wires to my eyes and blinded me, so that the only thing I could see for the rest of my life was the afterimage of you two boning. It was profoundly disturbing.” A shudder ran the length of his body.

“Sounds it,” he agreed. “If it helps, I can assure you that I haven’t touched a woman in eight years. I’m definitely never touching her again.”

“Oddly, that does help,” he admitted. “Hold on. Eight years? No wonder you wake up sprung so often. You really need to get some.”

He laughed. “You volunteering?”

“Hey, I’m plenty pretty and if you were gay you’d totally be into me. I might’ve been plastered, but I remember you saying that,” he said with confidence, pausing a moment before asking, “You did say that, right?”

“I said that.”

“Cool. I guess that will be your Plan B if you don’t find a nice, mentally stable girl,” he decided. “So do your parents tell you who you can date? I mean, they dictate your dance partners. Do they dictate the horizontal ones, too?”

Somehow discussing his sex life was worse than confessing to his youthful dalliance with that psychotic bitch, but the quaver of fear had gone from his voice; he sounded almost like Stiles again. Derek didn’t want to shut him down and make him crawl into dark dreams, so he answered. “In a way.”

“What does that mean?”

“Since Kate, I’ve basically been on lockdown. Everyone I meet is vetted. Every location on my itinerary is inspected for threats. My calls, texts, emails are all monitored. It started as a defense against Kate or Gerard contacting me, then that protective blanket went into making sure no one like her could manipulate me again.”

“And now?” Stiles questioned.

“Now it’s just the way things are,” he sighed, defeated.

“They investigate everybody you meet? Even me?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“Oh, shit, I should’ve cleared my browser history all the way to the beginning of time,” he groaned and let his head fall back against Derek’s shoulder. “Don’t judge me by my porn habits, okay?”

“As long as it doesn’t involve underaged children or barnyard animals, I don’t really care what gets you off,” he assured him. “Although, I’m going to guess that it probably features at least one petite strawberry blonde.”

An elbow dug into his ribs for that. “Dick.”

“Ass.”

“Oh, is that what’s in your browser history?” Stiles questioned. “Wait, if they’re watching every email you send, does that mean they’re also checking what websites you visit? Can you not porn?”

“Only what my imagination can supply.”

“That is just depressing. I can’t even begin to think how boring that must be, especially after eight years and only the one woman to use as-- Whoa, actually, how many women did you have before this eight years a loner thing? How many did you do the do with?”

“Define ‘the do’.” He could feel the boy’s skin warming and knew he was blushing. These were the little moments that always tricked him into thinking he and Stiles could be more. He didn't want to fall for it again, but it was just so much fun to make him flush with embarrassment; even if it was too dark to see it happening.

“Penis in vagina. What the hell else would ‘the do’ mean.”

“Cocks fit in places other than vaginas,” he reasoned, and it felt as if Stiles was on fire.

“Oh, my god, I hate you.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“I absolutely do. You are still that arrogant little shit you were at seventeen.”

He laughed into the boy’s neck, feeling the skin rise in goosebumps. “Stiles, how old are you?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t actually know.”

“Twenty-one next month,” he said. “You?”

Four years and a half year. Four and a half tiny, insignificant years. That’s what had been holding him back from saying anything for the past six months. It was too late to act on it now. After so much time, he knew there was no hope of Stiles being interested in him.

“Twenty-five last December.”

“Dude, I missed your birthday? Why didn’t you say anything? I totally would have gotten you something.”

“I’m a prince, Stiles,” he reminded him. “I have plenty. Besides, my birthday is on Christmas. I don’t usually get to have a party.”

“Well, that sucks. Next year, you’re getting one. I’ll make it happen. I’m great at this shit now. Been learning from Lydia, who I don’t think I need to tell you is the best when it comes to party planning.”

“Among other things,” he agreed without bothering to conceal his weariness. “And how are her prospects for this year’s Field Medal?”

“How the hell would I know? I’ve been spending all my time with you planning your big race. Oh, hey, tomorrow is Saturday. You ready for the race? I’m super stoked. Would it be weird if I hung out in the pits?”

“I’d like that,” he admitted, hating his traitorous heart for beating faster; he had dreamed of Stiles waiting for him after the race, climbing into the cockpit to kiss him when he won. “That’s assuming you’re allowed out of the palace and I’m allowed to drive.”

“Why wouldn’t you be allowed?” he demanded. “Oh, damn, because of me. Shit, I’m just ruining your entire life, aren’t I?”

There in the dark, it was so much easier to own up to the things he had been hiding from everyone. Especially from himself. “It wasn’t much of a life before you got here. Racing was the only thing I did. I don’t even remember the last time I actually had fun driving. I think, maybe, that was why I stole that car, to try to feel that thrill again.”

“What would you do instead?”

Derek thought about it. He had already started laying down the groundwork to becoming a proper and useful member of his sister’s council, but with each meeting he realized how much he still had to learn. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, we’ll figure it out.”

“We? You planning on sticking around?”

“You do have my dog,” Stiles reminded him. “Besides, if you’re still on lockdown eight years after dealing with that woman, there’s a chance I might never be allowed to leave palace grounds. I hope you like looking at my plenty pretty face.”

“It’s not so bad. I’ve seen worse.”

“Yeah, name one.”

“Kate’s.”

“You said she was beautiful.” He knew he was imagining the resentment in those words.

“I also said I was stupid.” Derek drew in a steadying breath before admitting, “I was always afraid of what would happen if I saw her again. I was so sure I would fall for her a second time, but I felt… nothing. Not even hate. I hate what she did, what she got me to do. I hate what she did to you, but those are her actions. Just her alone, she didn’t stir anything in me.”

“What? You think she broke your feels?”

He breathed a laugh. “No. I definitely still feel.”

“Not just pain, though, right? I mean, you have feelings. And not for a dog. Loving your dog absolutely does not count. Loving your dog is just a given. I mean you have feelings for another person.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Cool. Good to know she didn’t break your feels,” he said, fidgeting against Derek’s arm as he fell silent for just a moment. “So who got your feels working again?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious. Want to know who you’re into. Maybe I can help you avoid another crazy one.”

“I’m pretty sure this one is crazy in a different way.”

“Abort! Abort! Get out now, man,” he advised. “How far in are you, anyway?”

“That is a trick question,” he replied, knowing he should stop, that they were dangerously close to a truth he shouldn’t share. “I think it’s sort of like what you have with Lydia. Undying, fruitless love on my end; complete romantic indifference on theirs.”

“But you’re a prince,” Stiles said, his voice thick with confusion. “Who in their right mind would say ‘no’ to you?”

“Someone who doesn’t think of me that way, obviously. That’s what makes single-sided love so damn tragic, isn’t it? Because you know that if they would just look at you and really see what was right in front of them, it would be perfect.”

“Oh, my god, dude, you are _gone_. Who melted your soft caramel center?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Derek sighed.

“I guess not.”

Silence crept into the dark, and he sat against the headboard, holding Stiles close.

“Hey, Derek,” Stiles whispered. “You awake?”

“Yes.”

“Are you really not going to tell me who it is?”

“Stiles, are you even trying to get back to sleep? Because I am.” That was a lie.

“Yes,” he insisted. Derek could tell that, too, was a lie.

“I am right here. I’m not going to let go,” he promised. “Just go to sleep.”

“Fine.”

He waited. Waited for the change to his breathing, for the tension to slip away as consciousness did. It took some time, but he knew when Stiles had finally allowed himself to fall asleep again. Only then did Derek close his eyes and drop off behind him.

Stiles slept through what was left of the night unperturbed by night terrors. Derek was too fixated on the creature in his arms to reach a sleep deep enough to dream; every time Stiles shifted, Derek woke and hugged him closer. So how the man had managed to slip out of reach, he couldn’t quite understand, but Stiles was sitting on the edge of the bed when he woke. Derek lay there watching the muscles of his back shift as he breathed and muttered and ran his hands through his hair. What he wouldn’t give to have that view every morning.

“Morning,” he groaned before he could let his imagination run too far.

Stiles lept off the bed, his face reconfiguring itself from terrified to morose instantly. “Hey, yeah, good morning.”

“You all right? You seem kind of jumpy.”

The anxious fidgeting stopped at his words as if Derek had criticized him. Stiles glanced down at his hands and back at Derek. He looked ready to say something, something important if his agitation was any indication. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

“ _This!_ ” He gestured emphatically between them. “This pretending friends is enough thing. It isn’t. I can’t just sit here and play your buddy Stiles anymore. Not after yesterday. Not after you flew for me. Seriously, Derek, you _flew_ for me. You let me sleep in your bed and held me after I had nightmares. It’s giving me too much hope, okay, and I can’t do it anymore. I’m going to go. I’ll stay in the guest suite until your mom says I can go home. Then -- I don’t know -- we’ll see.”

It all spilled from his mouth before Derek could even blink. Stiles was out the door before he could even understand what was said.

When the speedy blur of his confession worked through his sleep-deprived brain, there was only one thing he could say. “Holy shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that how you saw it coming? :)
> 
> Playlist:  
> Laura Marling - [Night Terror](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rsIKbH9p9zI)


	27. The Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which desires are finally, FINALLY voiced.

27: The Best Laid Plans  
  
“Holy shit.”

“ _Holy shit!_ ”

“Holy fucking shit! _STILES!_ ”

Derek threw himself from the bed, chasing after him, hoping to god he could catch up to him before he locked himself in the guest suite, before he fled the house.

He was reaching for the doorknob when it flew away from his hand. Stiles stood in the doorway, agitation stilled and a calculating look in his eye. He stepped closer, appraising Derek as if they’d only just met. 

“One thing I just thought of, though,” the man said, voice eerily calm. “You _let_ me sleep in your bed. You adopted a dog for me. You put me on the green list when we’d only met a handful of times. You called me when you did something stupid. You gave yourself to that woman for me.” He kept creeping closer, each step a punctuation mark on his reasoning, stopping only when Derek hit the bedpost and had nowhere left to go. A knowing, terrifying smile pulled across his face as he asked, “Is it possible you want me to be your orange?”

“I definitely want to be your blue,” Derek admitted.

“Oh, thank god. If you said it was all just friendship and bravado, I think I would’ve died of embarrassment and blue balls.”

“Blue balls? Seriously?”

Stiles reached out a hand and brushed his fingertips against Derek’s face, his neck, his chest, just as he had felt in his dream so many months ago. “Have you seen yourself? I look at you, and I need sex. Thanks for that, by the way. The priest on base thinks I’m going to hell for how often I confess to having solo sexy fun time, which, in case you were wondering, is after every visit to your house.”

"You do the same thing to me, so it’s only fair,” he said, leaning into his touch.

“If we look at each other and want to get naked, why haven’t we actually gotten naked together yet? It’s been months, Derek. _Months_.”

“Let’s make up for lost time, then,” Derek suggested but made no move to pull him closer. He was reluctant to initiate anything with Stiles, fearful of the implications, but when that gentle hand curved around his ass he wasn’t going to fight it. He let him draw their bodies close, erections sliding together with only the thin barriers of Derek’s pajamas and Stiles’s underwear between them. His moan was lost in the other man’s mouth.

So many times he had imagined his mouth, his lips, his teeth and tongue. So many times he pictured their first kiss, always sweet, tender, hesitant even. He had thought him a child after all, inexperienced though not immature. The mouth that met his was confident, the kiss desperate; Stiles had been holding himself back, and that kiss told him just how tired he was of having to wait. Derek felt the same way and matched his every breath-stealing move.

Stiles pulled Derek’s hips tighter against his own, rocking into him. They moved together, fast, hard, uncoordinated. It wasn’t at all how he thought they would be together, but it felt too good to stop. After eight years alone, he had forgotten what it was like to have someone else touch him.

Each and every humiliating noise he made was swept from his mouth and mixed with Stiles’s.

The tension was building far too soon, but it had been so long. Derek shuddered against him, fingers digging into his hips, adding to the bruises already littering his body. Stiles didn’t complain. He kept rocking his hips, kept claiming his mouth until he too was moaning his release.

They tumbled together onto the mattress, Stiles breathing a relaxed laugh. “Finally.”

“That wasn’t quite what I thought our first time would be like,” Derek admitted, just as breathless.

“Let me guess. Candlelight, mood music, satin sheets.”

“Oh, shut up, asshole. Why the hell do I even like you?”

He grinned, rolling to reach his phone and swiping through screens. “I’m not making fun of you, dumbass. Look.”

Derek snatched the phone away from his hand, scowling at it and reading the mess of text, pictures, and URL links. “Are you kidding me? ‘ _How to Seduce Derek_ ’?”

“Keep reading.”

“ _‘Get naked - Derek gets stupid when you’re naked’_ ,” he read aloud. “You little shit! I knew you were doing that on purpose!”

“Can you blame me? You turn the most adorable colors when I strip down to my underwear.” Stiles smiled and slid a hand up his thigh. “Keep going.”

“ _‘Say stupid shit - It makes Derek smile’_. That is true.” His eye skimmed the rest, too distracted by the man’s warm, wandering hand to give it too much thought. There were photos of candlelit bedrooms and dinner tables, recipes that he knew full well Stiles was too impatient to follow. “Is that Barry White?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Is that porn?”

“Shit, you weren’t supposed to look that far down,” Stiles scrambled to steal back his phone, but it was too late. Derek had already pressed his finger to the screen and set the video to playing. It was indeed porn. Porn with nothing but men. A montage of men giving very enthusiastic blow jobs, licking one another’s asses, burying themselves deep.

“Wow,” Derek said, still staring at the phone. “That was… Is this what you always watch?”

“Didn’t used to be.”

“Then why?”

“Why the hell do you think?” Stiles all but spat. “I used to think I was completely straight, but there you were all handsome and perfect, putting gay thoughts in my head. I wanted to see what it was like, if I was even into it or just into the idea of you. But, really, I wanted to know what to do if I was ever lucky enough to get my hands on you.”

“I made you gay?”

“So fucking gay. I want to have your adopted babies, man. I want to buy curtains with you and shit like that,” he groaned and scraped his hands down his face. “I spent so many nights wishing you were a girl -- wishing I was a girl -- just to make the idea of ‘us’ even possible.”

He smiled. “You weren’t alone.”

“We really do need to get better at the talking thing.”

“I completely agree.”

“Because Stiles is always right and you are never not wrong,” he reminded him. “I think we also need to work on getting naked before we sex each other up. I just came in the only pair of clean underwear I have here.”

“Borrow mine.”

“Something too weird about that. I’ll just go commando. It’ll be kinky,” he gave a lascivious wiggle of his eyebrows.

“You realize that’s the shit that convinced me you were sixteen,” he informed him.

He stared at him for far too long, face unreadable. “Sixteen?”

“Why do you think I tried to push you away? Tried to get you to talk to someone else about planning the race? I didn’t want to be like _her_ ,” Derek insisted.

“Yeah, but sixteen?” he said again, baffled. “You’re telling me that if I’d just shown you my driver’s license we could have been boning since November?”

“December. I’m not that easy.”

“Uh, the sticky mess in your pants would suggest otherwise,” he observed with a wicked grinned. “You dig me. You flirted so fucking hard even though you thought I was jailbait.”

“I’m starting to regret my liking you,” Derek scowled.

“Let me make it up to you,” he purred. “I didn’t spend all those hours watching gay-ass porn for my own benefit. That was porn with a purpose. It was educational.” He slid across the bed toward him, hands slipping under Derek’s pajamas to touch the skin beneath.

“You realize porn isn’t real. Those people are faking half the t-- oh, fucking hell, do that again,” he groaned, hips bucking up into the hands playing so expertly across his cock.

“This would really work so much better if we were naked, don’t you think? Why don’t you take these off?”

It was embarrassing how quickly Derek acted to obey his request, but he had figured out months ago that there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Stiles. So he stood naked and aroused, holding his breath and hoping Stiles was just as eager.

“Fuck, that’s not fair. Look at you,” Stiles complained. “You’re a damned masterpiece.” Even as he voiced his protests about the injustice of it all, he moved closer, fingertips ghostings across his skin, making his breath hitch and desire unfurl deep in his belly. In his dreams, Stiles had touched him, but not like this. This was not the hand of a familiar lover on his skin. This was exploratory, gentle, and cautious as Stiles learned the nuances of Derek’s form. It only got better once his mouth began its own separate study, beginning at his neck, kissing and nipping at his pulse, lavishing attention on his throat as his clever, elegant fingers wrapped around him.

A moan, low and loud, vibrated up from his chest and out into the early, dark morning. It was just the first of many. Without Stiles’s mouth on his to quiet his cries, Derek let every errant thought spill from his lips. _Fuck, god, please, more, Stiles_ , echoed through his rooms punctuated with moans and whimpers as the man worked him. He shouted his release and slumped, breathless against him.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a screamer,” Stiles smirked, kissing him thoroughly.

“As if you could be quiet,” he retorted, words slurring together as he relaxed.

“Hey, no fair falling asleep. You’re not the only one who wants to have a good time.”

“Does Stiles want to have a good time?”

“Yes, Stiles does. Lots and lots of good times. In a row. In multiple positions,” he insisted.

“How about this one?” Derek asked as he sank to his knees.

“I think Stiles might like that one. Oh, shit, Stiles like fucking loves that one!” he cried, fingers tangling in his hair as he licked his length. If he was a screamer, Stiles was a fucking banshee. Even his gasps were loud. Derek loved it. There was no mistaking the fact that his lover was enjoying the attentions he was providing.

The fist in his hair tugged hard, trying to tear him away from the man’s cock. Derek wasn’t having it; he wanted to finish the job, see Stiles through to completion. He lifted his eyes to watch him, knowing he was close. Flushed, naked, and gasping, he looked ravaged. At Derek’s self-satisfied hum, the man shuddered and cursed as he came. He leaned against the bedpost, his body shaking with the power of his orgasm and breath coming hard.

“Don’t look so fucking smug,” Stiles complained.

“I think I earned my smug,” Derek insisted. “It sounded like I earned it.”

“Dick,” he griped.

“Ass.”

“As you once said: ‘that does sound like a plan’,” he smiled and fell back onto the bed.

“I never said that,” Derek insisted, sitting down beside him.

“You so did. You were concussed and high on these kickass painkillers I’m on now, but you totally said it.”

He stared at Stiles, watching his eyes and seeing absolutely no guile there. As a smirk pulled across his mouth, Derek remembered falling asleep to that look on his face after the crash, after seeing Stiles practically naked for the first time, after they traded their insults. “Oh, fuck, I said that out loud?”

Stiles offered an almost boastful hum of agreement. “It was the first clue I had that you might possibly be into dudes.”

“And that didn’t worry you?”

“Nah, what did I care if you liked the D,” he offered with a shrug.

“What other clues?”

“The cock against my ass in the morning was a pretty big hint,” he admitted, making Derek groan with embarrassment. “No girlfriend. No date at the ball. And then there were the little things.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, like the way I would get stupid when you stripped to your underwear.”

“No, it was the way you’d look at me,” he said, quiet and earnest. “Your face would go all soft and sad. It was the same look Scott used to have when Allison broke up with him once, like every time he saw her he was looking at something he couldn’t have. And then there was the way your eyes would drop to my mouth like you were thinking about kissing me. You’d stand a little too close. You didn’t punch me in the face when I copped a feel when we danced. And, maybe I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure you make a point of wearing your tightest shirts whenever I’m around. They seem awful tight.”

“If you saw all that, why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought it was my gay imagination, didn’t I?” Stiles insisted. “I figured a man stupid enough to steal a car would just open his mouth and say something if he were into me.”

“I was trying not to scare you away.”

“Not scared, especially after a blowjob that fantastic. Your mouth deserves a national fucking monument.”

“And that was just my first try,” he grinned. “Imagine what else I could be this good at.”

Stile narrowed his eyes as he considered him. “Are you talking about putting your dick in my ass?”

Derek let a smirk pull across his mouth, but whatever his answer might have been was interrupted by the clang of the dressing gong, so much louder than it had been now that his rooms were so barren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And about damn time, too. Am I right?


	28. Breaking Fast with the Hales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the royal family is ever so subtle and final fears are assuaged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more chapters left to this. I'm both excited to see it done and sad to see it end.

28:  Breaking Fast with the Hales  
  
At the near-deafening clang of the dressing gong, Stiles started. Not as he had when Justine knocked on the door the night before. This was not the Captain leaping into action to protect his prince; this was the panic of a young man terrified of being caught in a compromising position. He scrambled to throw the sheet over his naked body, as if the gong signaled the imminent arrival of the Queen.

“Relax, it’s just to tell us we’re expected at breakfast,” Derek assured him.

“But we never have breakfast with your family,” he said rising slowly and following him through the rooms. “We get a tray. A nice, private tray. Emphasis on _private_.”

“Normally, yes. However, I missed dinner,” he explained. “We make a point of having at least one meal each week as a family. It’s usually all our agendas will permit. If circumstances prevent one of us from attending, the next meal is designated family dinner. Even if it’s breakfast.”

“And if we decided to just stay in?”

“You do not want to know what would happen. Believe me.”

Stiles nodded as he trailed Derek all the way to the bathroom, standing on the cold tile floor as he pulled the shower curtain into place.

“What are you doing?” Derek asked.

“I thought we’d save some time and shower together,” Stiles said with a smile. “Your little prince seems to think it’s a good idea.”

“My ‘little prince’ has no sense of time or of shame,” he countered. “We both know full well what would happen, and then we would be late for breakfast. Besides, Deaton hasn’t given you permission to take the bandages off yet. I will wash your back and that’s it.” He placed his hands on the young man’s shoulders and forced him to turn around.

“Where is your sense of spontaneity?” Stiles griped.

“The last time I was spontaneous, I crashed into a tree. The time before that, I nearly got my family burned alive. Spontaneity and I get along about as well as you and that set of stairs by the harbor.”

“Your spontaneity saved my life,” he replied quietly.

“There was nothing spontaneous about that. I knew exactly what I was doing before I even got on that damned helicopter.”

“Hey, Derek? Thank you.”

He placed a kiss on his bruised shoulder. “It wasn’t entirely altruistic.”

“Conceited and selfish,” he sighed, leaning into him. “You’re turning out to be kind of a stereotype.”

“Disappointed?”

“Trying to be, but you’re making it kind of hard. Oh, look, more innuendo.”

“Just get on with it. We’ll be late,” Derek insisted and pushed him gently toward the sink.

Outside the bathroom door, he tried not to listen to the noises Stiles was making. The hiss of him relieving his tension was enough to have him stirring in response, but that ardor was cooled considerably by the grunts of pain that followed. He was injured. Remembering such was difficult when he was so eager to advance their relationship, but it was an actual fact. The evidence was written all over his body in cuts, abrasions, bruises, and burns. They really should have waited until Stiles was healed.

“Shit, I know that look,” the man groaned. “That’s your guilt face. Is this about me?”

“Yes.”

Stiles gripped his chin painfully and forced his head up until their eyes met. “What did I say?”

“That it’s not my fault.”

“And?”

“And that I’m man-pretty.” He offered a wan smile that Stiles did not return.

“Inappropriately timed humor, your grace. What else did I say?”

He repeated the reassuring words spoken to him in the dark. “It’s her fault.”

“Because I’m always right,” Stiles said as if that were the end of it. It wasn’t. Derek would always hate himself for Kate. Deep down, he knew that there was nothing he could have done differently, not at that age. Kate was too charismatic and he too inexperienced to see just how dangerous and unstable she was. While he did grasp that he wasn’t entirely to blame, some of that burden would always fall on him, especially for what happened to Stiles.

The man released an irritated huff of breath, probably seeing there was no hope of Derek absolving himself. “Just go shower. Your family is waiting.”

He obeyed, washing away the sweat and sex but not the guilt.

They walked in uneasy silence, Stiles glancing at him often with a combative look on his face. Together they slid into the dining room and joined the others at the table. It had been some time since any of them had brought a guest home, certainly an age since that guest was a lover. He had forgotten how his parents arranged themselves at either end of the table; during normal meals, they sat close together so they might share ideas as they read letters and legislation. His sisters now sat together on one side of the table, which left Derek and Stiles sitting opposite as if on display. This was going to be tremendously uncomfortable.

No one immediately spoke.

Breakfast was carried in and placed on their plates. Coffee, tea, and juice were poured. The sound of flatware clinking and scraping was horrifyingly loud to his ear. It was still better than anything they might have said, he was sure. Then Laura spoke and confirmed his fears.

“So, Stiles, did you sleep well?”

He heard it. That particular lilt in her voice only came out when she was teasing. Stiles had not spent enough time in her presence to know it yet, but Derek recognized it in an instant.

“Not really,” Stiles admitted.

“Oh, that is a shame,” she said.

“I do hope it wasn’t the company,” Talia added.

“What? Derek? No, he was fine.”

“Then what kept you awake?”

Dear god, could they have been any more obvious? His mother might as well have thrown up a banner reading ‘I know you two are sleeping together’.

Stiles, however, just answered honestly. “Nightmares about Kate electrocuting me. Again.”

“Oh,” his mother said, dropping her eye.

“Ms. Morell -- that’s Deaton’s sister -- is a psychologist,” his father offered. “She’s not a full-time resident, but I’m sure she would be willing to spend some time here if it helps you feel comfortable.”

“We do hope feel comfortable here,” Laura practically chirped.

“Oh, yeah. Love it here.” Stiles glanced at Derek, his expression asking what in the hell was wrong with his family. There weren’t enough words in the four languages he spoke to answer.

“Good, we’ll arrange to have Morrell stop by on Monday,” Wesley decided. “It will give you something to do until you’re well enough for more physical activities.”

“Rest is vital to the healing process,” Laura agreed. “You better not do anything overly strenuous.”

“Oh, my god!” Derek shouted. “Could you make this any more awkward? Yes, we’re having sex!”

“We know,” his mother said baldly.

“The entire house knows,” Laura informed him.

“I’m going to need Morrell just to get over the trauma of listening to you two going at it. Seriously, you know how sound carries in this place. Were you even trying to be quiet?” Cora demanded, stabbing at her bacon. “You two suck.”

“Not yet, I don’t,” Stiles said, wicked grin taking over his flushed face.

“All joking aside,” Talia interjected. “I hope you’re being careful.”

“Why? Not as if I’m going to get pregnant,” Derek scoffed.

“Oh, my sweet Jesus! I did not need to know my brother bottomed. Calling Morrell to get here _now_ ,” Cora cried and ran from the table.

“I meant careful with Stiles. He only just escaped that woman. You do remember that, don’t you, Derek? That he spent nearly a week being tortured. He’s in no fit state for that kind of activity yet.” His mother offered him a look of pure disappointment.

“Yeah,” he muttered, staring down at his plate. He felt awful, as if he had pushed Stiles into something he wasn’t ready for, either physically or emotionally. What if his eagerness for Derek was just an extreme reaction to his experience with Kate? What if it was just his gratefulness for being rescued coming out as physical affection? What if--

The spiral of self-doubt dissipated with the warm hand weighing down on his own. He watched as those clever, elegant fingers twined with his. It felt like an anchor, tethering him in place.

“Are we done making Derek feel like shit?” Stiles demanded in what was quickly becoming known as his Captain voice. “He has a race to go win.”

“Yes, we’re done here. And watch your language. Especially in front of the cameras,” Talia warned.

“Yes, ma’am.” His promise was punctuated with a sarcastic salute, and he hauled Derek from the table.

That hand stayed linked with his, pulling him through the corridors.

“Well, that was fun,” Stiles commented blithely. “Do you think that’s a one-time-only kind of thing?”

“God, I hope so.” He grit his teeth trying to string together the question he needed to ask. “Am I… I mean… Are you only doing this because I’m a prince?”

The man stopped so abruptly Derek crashed into him. Still their hands remained linked. “You think I’m just trying to climb the social ladder? When have I given the slightest impression that I give two shits about a title?”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that.” He growled at his inability to express himself. “I outrank you. Are you just following orders? Doing this because you think I want you to?”

Stiles was silent a beat too long as he appraised him. When he spoke, his voice was terrifyingly calm, “Do you want me to?” 

“Yes.”

“Me, too.”

“But are you doing it because _you_ want to or becau--”

“Derek, I fucking hate that you’re a prince. It’s a pain in my ass and makes what could be something simple into a mess of press coverage and bodyguards. If I could do this with someone else, believe me, I would. But you are what I want. Fuck the rest.” He tugged on Derek’s hand, drawing him closer. “Is that why you didn’t do anything?”

“I thought you were too young.”

“That clearly didn’t stop you from flirting,” Stiles observed. “Is that why you didn’t do anything more?”

“Yeah. I didn’t want to force you into something.” He realized, rather belatedly, that he hadn’t been the only one holding back. Stiles’s plan to seduce him had clearly gone back to their early meetings, possibly even their first encounter in November. “What stopped you?”

“Have you seen me?” he questioned as if that were reason enough.

“I have.”

“Well, then you get why I never thought someone like you would be into someone like me.”

“No, I don’t get that at all. You are fucking perfect even if you are an ass.”

Stiles smiled. “You are one handsome little liar, Derek Hale. Now give us a kiss.”

He was more than happy to comply, taking the man’s mouth in a soft kiss far more akin to the one he had expected from him. This was the first kiss he had dreamed of, and what followed was more of the same, tender and gentle, nothing like the desperate battle of tongues and teeth that had come out of their fast confessions earlier that morning. Stiles cradled his jaw in his hand, thumb caressing delicate circles into his cheek as he pulled his lip between his own.

“Now about that comment earlier,” he whispered against Derek’s mouth.

“Which one?”

“The one where you implied I would be the one with his dick in your ass. Was that the plan?”

“It was my plan.”

“So you do have good ideas.”

“Not often, but on occasion,” he agreed. “We should probably wait, though.”

“Isn’t six months long enough?” Stiles balked. “I’m kind of desperate in case you didn’t notice.” He rolled his hips against Derek’s. His arousal was quite evident, especially as he continued the motion. It took all his strength to pull himself away.

“You weren’t injured then,” he insisted in a strained voice. “And I have to be somewhere.”

“I promise the pain will be worth it. And, while I’m not really proud of this, I can pretty much guarantee it’ll be quick. It’s been a while.”

“No, Stiles.”

“Lame. I want your hot body,” he whined. “ _Please_.”

“No.”

“Do I get your hot body if you win the race?” he asked, eager smile on his face.

He looked to the heavens for patience and a means of denying him. “Maybe. See what Deaton says when you're getting x-rayed later.”

“Well, that won’t be an awkward conversation at all.”

“No less awkward than what we just sat through,” Derek commented.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could be one for the playlist, but really it's just [Stiles's ringtone for Derek](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WMjU7EVsZT0) (and only Derek).


	29. Finish Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a bicentennial race is had and the best-laid plans will not come to pass.

29: Finish Line  
The starting grid was just as Derek had pictured it when Stiles took them for a drive so many months ago, sun glinting off the sea on one side and the bells tolling in the cathedral on the other. Heatwaves radiated off more than a dozen cars around him, all of them familiar, though he hadn’t raced in months. Not since his crash.

“How’s it going?” Stiles’s voice crackled in his ear.

“I don’t think I’ve had nerves this bad since my first race. There’s not even a real trophy,” he answered back as he willed his hands to stop shaking.

“That doesn’t mean the prize at the end isn’t worth it.”

“Stop smirking, you little shit.”

“How could you possibly know what my face is doing?” Stiles demanded.

“Because I know you.”

“Not as well as I’d like,” he purred. “I’m definitely smirking now.”

“Get the fuck off my radio with that shit,” Coach shouted. “I’m trying to prepare for a race here, not write goddamn love notes. Get your ass back over there! Don’t touch anything. Don’t even breathe on anything.” Into the radio, he said, “Your new favorite is a pain in my ass.”

Derek could only imagine the trouble Stiles was getting into with only Boyd to supervise him. “He’s a pain in everyone’s ass."

“Can we focus on the race now? Yes? About fucking time,” he sniped before reminding Derek about how important it was to get a good start, the trickiness of turn six, where to catch the apex of he didn’t care what because he had driven this course so many times in his head that he knew every turn and treacherous stretch of road. It held no surprises, only the memory of his day with Stiles, which is why he was so looking forward to driving it again; he wanted to see with his eyes what he had imagined -- the palace draped in the national colors flying past as three hundred kilometers per hour, the trails of rubber left on the roads as car after car failed to calculate the appropriate approach speed on the hairpin, the smiling face of the young man in plaid waiting for him when he won.

The airhorn blew its shrill note and the flags dropped. Derek was at the very back of the pack. He had placed there on purpose. Partially, it was from a sense of fairness, for he knew the roads better than any of his competitors. For the most part, Derek just wanted recognition. If he had fought his way from the very back and still made the podium, no one could deny his skill.

Coach shouted in his ear, though he heard none of it. He was too busy slaloming slower cars, avoiding Greenburg as he spun out and hit the barricade of hay bales, passing three more cars and gaining that many more positions as he sped down the straight toward the hairpin. He downshifted hard, decelerated so rapidly the air was pushed from his lungs, and turned sharply up and onto the road toward the palace. His parents were there watching from a balcony. He waved as he sped past. By the eighteenth lap, he was in tenth place. Far better than he had expected so early in the race. He didn’t dare let up. As Stiles had said, this was his race, his charity, his city, his country. It needed to be his win.

And it was.

He sped through the checkered flags a full minute before the nearest driver, Coach hollering his delight and joyous airhorns blowing in the temporary stands. In the past, he would sit a moment in the solitude of the cockpit to breathe and force the smile from his face, but today he earned his smile. He climbed from the car and was nearly knocked off his feet. His crew, always so sedate and respectful after previous wins, was slapping him hard on the back, shouting their pride, and trying to lift him into the air. That was where Derek had to draw the line.

He smiled, thanked every man on the crew, and stepped away, his eye already hunting for the plaid shirt of his dreams. It wasn’t there.

“Looking for someone?”

He spun at the voice, heart leaping halfway up his throat when Stiles smiled at him. There was no plaid, no too baggy pants or tee-shirt. Instead, there was Captain Stilinski, pressed and polished and perfect. “Captain.”

“I was told uniforms were mandatory for public appearances this month. Hope you aren’t offended or embarrassed or something.”

“Why would I be? You look…” He wasn’t sure there was an appropriate way of saying ‘fuckable’ with so many reporters closing in. His eyes darted away, noting the proximity of the nearest microphone, “Let’s just say you look ready for strenuous physical activity.”

The corner of the man’s mouth rose in a slow, devious smirk. “I’m not the only one.”

“Your grace! Your grace!” The reporters cried, rushing up and bombarding him with the same questions as always. His answers came out by rote. The race might have been for charity and celebration, but it was still nothing to crow about. It still didn’t do to sing one’s own praises.

Stiles thought differently.

“I’m sorry, did you miss the part where you went from dead last to first place? I didn’t,” he demanded. “Did your crew do that?”

“No,” Derek said, hoping the grime of the race hid his blush.

“You raced great.”

“About fucking time someone said it. I’m so tired of all this modesty shit!” Coach said.

“Your grace, does this signal your return to racing?” a woman asked.

It was tempting to answer in the affirmative. If every race made him feel as this one had, Derek would happily spend the rest of his life in that car, but he knew that wasn’t the case. The only thing that made this race special was that it belonged to Stiles. Were this any other race on the Formula circuit, it would have left him feeling discontent.

“No,” he said. “Raeken has proven himself more than just a substitute while I’ve taken a sabbatical for the bicentennial. I think the team will do just fine without me.”

“Are you giving up racing completely?”

“I have plans for several charity circuits throughout the city. Five at the moment, but I’m sure someone clever could create a few more.” He glanced at Stiles and smiled at the embarrassed splotches of red growing on the man’s cheeks. “The palace will release an official statement when we have more concrete details.”

The overlapping questions shouted out after his announcement were so loud and unruly that Boyd had to step in, his face stern and shoulders squared. Derek waved Raeken over and pushed him toward the cameras, knowing he would love the attention that came with being chosen as a prince’s successor. He wasn’t bound by the same rules of decorum that stayed Derek’s tongue; he could boast and brag and make Coach proud.

“Are you really quitting?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah.”

“But you love racing. Why would you give that up?”

“To be with you,” he answered. It was a simple, honest truth. He loved Stiles more than he loved racing. If he were to keep up that career, such as it was, he would be forced to spend too much time away from Faron and from him. There were options, of course, but ones that would have left his parents open to criticism for misuse of funds; a private jet carrying Stiles to and from races and practices around the globe would certainly not come cheap.

“Besides,” he said after a pause, “I’m not giving it up. I’m just shifting my focus away from commercial racing. This event has brought in a massive amount of money for the FSPCA. If we could do one of these even twice a year, we could do so much good.”

“Soft caramel center,” Stiles muttered.

“The softest.”

By some unspoken agreement, they knew to keep a safe distance from one another while the cameras were trained on them. Smitten they may be, but neither was stupid or blind to the storm that would sweep across the headlines when Derek came out as gay. Such a story would have completely overshadowed both their race and the country’s celebration. The second the door to Derek’s stately, black sedan closed, however, they might as well have been locked in his bedroom.

Stiles latched his mouth onto Derek’s neck, biting at the flesh, licking and sucking at it. Derek let his head fall back, exposing his throat to the man’s attention.

“It’s been too long since we did this,” Stiles complained.

Difficult as it as to string the words together, Derek managed a reply. “It’s only been nine hours.”

“Nine? Fuck that’s longer than I thought. I want you naked,” he groaned.

“No time. Nearly home.”

“Should have gone with course five. Would’ve had at least a thirty-minute drive back to your place.”

“Next time,” he promised and pushed Stiles back into the seat, pulling the lapels of his uniform straight and combing his fingers through the man’s disheveled hair. “We’re home.”

“ _You’re_ home,” the man corrected as he followed Derek through the doors.

“For the amount of time you spend here, I’m honestly surprised you haven’t changed the address on your driver’s license.” He stopped, side-eying him as he asked, “You haven’t, have you?”

“Not yet.” Stiles winked.

That simple familiarity combined with the uniform and Stiles just being himself had Derek ready to crowd him against the wall and ravage him. It took Herculean strength to hold himself back, to keep walking the long path to the residential wing. Of course, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen the moment they were alone in his rooms. He liked that plan. It was a good plan. Even Stiles would agree with him, he was sure. However, it was a plan that would never come to be.

As they approached his rooms, Derek saw his door was open when he was certain he had closed it that morning. Before he could question if Stiles had forgotten to shut it, Justine hurried out carrying what looked to be his duvet.

“What’s going on?”

“Oh, dear, we were meant to have it done before you returned home, your grace” she sighed.

“Have what done?”

“The move, of course.”

“What move?” he demanded, but the woman was already bustling past. He stomped through the door into his rooms. What little furniture remained had been pushed to the center of each room and draped with plastic sheeting.

“What’s going on? Where are my things?”

“The guest suite in the west wing, sir,” Daniel replied, offering a slight bow to the prince and a nod in Stiles’s direction. “Your parents thought it high time something be done about the way noise tends to carry. Since your rooms were practically empty after your turn last week, they felt it the easiest place to start.”

“Yes, I’m so sure that was their reason,” Derek replied baldly.

Daniel leaned in. “I’m told three maids fainted and one guard on duty had to see Deaton for a nosebleed this morning, sir.”

“Just three? I’m a little disappointed,” Stiles muttered.

“You would be,” Daniel snorted.

Derek looked to his secretary, as shocked by the familiarity of his comment as he was by the news of his rooms being moved. “Danie--” The kindest man he knew, openly gay, and completely without guile. Stiles had described him exactly as Derek had known him, yet he hadn’t made the connection. “ _Danny_.”

“Yes, sir?” the man asked.

“No, he’s just adding another tick mark onto the ‘ _Derek is an Idiot_ ’ list in his brain,” Stiles explained.

Danny stared at him a moment. “Honestly, sir, what the hell do you see in him?”

He breathed a hysterical laugh. “I wish I knew.”

“I think the three fainting maids and one manly nosebleeder kind of say it all,” Stiles insisted. “You’re just jealous you didn’t tap this when you had the chance.”

His secretary snorted again. “Whatever you say, Stiles.”

“Just a shame they’re fixing your rooms before we could up the score.”

“Seriously, sir, a bit of soundproofing will do everyone a world of good,” Danny replied, all business.

Heat crept up his neck, and he knew how red his face must be. “Yes, well, some warning would have been nice. The west wing? Which would place my rooms as far from my family as humanly possible while still being under the same roof.”

“Only until the insulation and weather stripping is complete,” his secretary smiled; Derek didn’t even know the man could look that smug. “Do you need help finding your rooms, sir?”

He grit his teeth to keep from swearing. “Thank you, Daniel, I think I know the way.”

Danny just offered him that smug little smile again before returning to his work.

Derek stalked down the hall, fuming with humiliation. “As if breakfast wasn’t bad enough,” he complained.

“The new digs seem like a double win,” Stiles admitted as he hurried to keep pace. “You get rooms with actual stuff in them again, and we don’t have to be quiet.”

Realization lit across his face as they walked. “We don’t have to be quiet, do we?”

“Even if they didn’t move you all the way across the house, they already know we’re enjoying sexy fun time together. Really, we wouldn’t have to be quiet either way, but this way is probably better for everyone,” he reasoned, face pulling tight in contemplation. “Now if only you had a fantastic and thoughtful man in your life willing to walk into a store and buy sexy fun time supplies. Oh, wait, you do.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a tube and a box of condoms.

“Just the one box?”

“It’s been a while for us both,” he admitted. “I assumed we’d exhaust ourselves before we ran out.”

It was Derek’s turn to look smug. “We’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one chapter left! I'm sorry to see it end.


	30. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an ending is had, though really it's a beginning.

30: The Beginning

His private time with Stiles, it seemed, would be forced to wait, as his new residence was teaming with a tiny army of maids seeing that it was put together as much like his old rooms as possible. While he was certainly eager enough to jump the man while they worked, Justine was there directing the women in their work, and Derek flatly refused to start humping anyone while the woman he considered a grandmother was in the room.

“Do the rooms meet with your approval?” the old woman asked.

“Yes, they’re fine. Thank you.”

“Excellent. We’ll be done in a jiffy, your grace,” she promised, adding before she returned to work, “Dinner is in thirty minutes. You’d best get cleaned up.”

Derek’s eyes moved to the mantel, knowing a clock would be there to indicate the time. He groaned to see that it was already thirty minutes past six and trudged toward the bathroom. Stiles followed.

“Is it me? Or is your family giving mixed signals? I mean, they gave you new rooms for vocal, sexy fun times, but aren’t giving you time to actually get to doing the do. Although, I’m sure we could manage something inside thirty minutes.” The man offered a smile to rival Daniel’s in smugness.

“Save that look for after dinner,” he warned. “I refuse to sit through another meal of innuendo and in-no-way-subtle subtext.”

“Then you clearly haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said for the last six months. That and sarcasm are all I have.”

“If your subtext was really less-than-subtle, I would have caught on to the fact that you liked me and done something about it,” Derek countered, peeling his racing jumpsuit off; the heat of the day had left him a sweaty mess, and the flame retardant fabric was clinging terribly. Stiles said nothing in reply, just watched with an open mouth and hungry eyes as millimeter by millimeter his bare skin came into view. “Problem, Stiles?”

“No problems here. Just coming to the conclusion that Deaton and his bandages can fuck off because I’m totally helping you shower.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Stiles is always right, remember?” he said, pushing him through the door to the bathroom and kicking it shut. His hands were too preoccupied teasing at Derek’s naked skin to be of any use in closing it. As those hands explored, the ravenous glint in his eye shifted, turning to awe. “Are you really all mine?”

“Are really not just following my orders?” Derek asked, barely managing to keep the words from coming out in a breathless moan.

“I don’t take orders from dumbasses that steal cars,” Stiles snorted.

“And I don’t want anyone else but you.” That time it was a breathless moan, and he didn’t care. Eight years he had spent terrified of giving in, giving up, letting go. Not with Stiles. He trusted Stiles more than he did anyone, more than he trusted himself. The man was perfect.

“Shit, I wish we could skip family dinner. Twenty-five minutes is nowhere near enough time to do all the things I want to do to you,” Stiles admitted.

“Would a lifetime work?”

The hands on his chest stilled at the question, and Stiles studied him as he never before had, intense and searching. His face gave nothing away, and his answer was far too long in coming. “I think,” he said, pausing to wet his lips and maybe give himself time to quell the shake threatening his voice. “I think that sounds like a question that should be asked when we aren’t both desperate to be naked.”

“Yeah, good idea,” he agreed.

“Know what else is a good idea?” Stiles questioned. “Actually getting naked. We’re kind of running low on time.”

He didn’t wait for Derek’s reply and began throwing his uniform off. It seemed a terrible waste after all the times and ways he had imagined being the one to strip him of it. His ardor cooled slightly as the crisp white shirt was pulled away, unveiling the grotesque bruises marring his skin, the stark white bandages at his wrists and on his side. His mother's words from that morning came back to him. Guilt churned in his gut. “Maybe we shouldn’t--”

“Maybe we shouldn’t wait any longer,” Stiles said with so much insistence it sounded almost like a command. “That better be what you were about to say because I’m getting in that shower with or without you. It will be a lot more fun with you. Plus, I still can’t reach my back.”

“Oh, well, if your personal hygiene is at stake,” Derek snorted.

“Scoffs the man who actually got to wash that woman off himself last night. I still feel her psycho tongue on me.” His eyes darkened as he spat the words out. “So, yes, dammit, I want to shower.” He threw off the bandages and retreated behind the shower curtain.

Derek really had no choice but to follow. He hurriedly argued the jumpsuit off and joined Stiles under the streams of warm, clean water. True to his comments, the man was scrubbing at his skin, face hard and without a hint of the humor or amorous intent he had shown seconds before. Having held him after his night terrors, Derek knew how terrifying the encounter with Kate had really been for him, and he knew he had to keep him from delving too deep into those memories.

“Let me,” he said, prying the washcloth from his shaking fingers. “Where did she touch you?”

Stiles watched him with wet eyes as Derek moved the cloth down his arm, gliding it gently over the bruised and abraded skin. It took him a moment before he answered. “Here.”

Derek took the cloth to his chest, washing Kate away before he placed his own mouth there to replace the memory. At his shoulder, his side, everywhere Stiles pointed, Derek cleaned and kissed, until there wasn’t a millimeter of tainted skin left on his body.

“Would you believe me if I told you she licked my dick?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her, but I also wouldn’t believe you,” Derek smiled.

“We’re going to have to do something about the situation we’ve both got going on down below,” Stiles commented. “I think innuendo and subtext would be the least of your problems if we went downstairs this sprung.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Derek admitted, hands ghosting down his sides, grazing over his hips, and curving around his buttocks. With one sharp tug, Stiles was flush against him, every centimeter of bare flesh pressing into his own, and it was every bit as glorious as he had imagined it would be. Then he rolled his hips, and it only got better. If he had thought the desperate rutting of that morning had felt good, then this was heaven. With nothing between them but the warm, running water and slick soap, he could feel every coiled, taut muscle in the other man’s body move and shift with each thrust against him.

Stiles took his mouth in a kiss so filthy it made him moan before the man broke away and filled the shower stall with the most delicious noises. Hard pants bordering on words; ragged gasps, as if he couldn’t keep air in his lungs; moans and whimpers as he started to tense against him; one loud groan from deep in his throat as warmth flooded the fractional gap between them. Watching him come undone pushed Derek over the edge.

“One day, we’ll manage to have real sex on a real bed,” Stiles laughed and pushed a lazy kiss against his lips.

“Sex doesn’t have to be on a bed,” he countered.

“The couch?”

Derek nodded.

“Table?”

Again, he nodded, imaging himself clawing for purchase on the smooth, polished inlay as Stiles pushed into him. “Stop making suggestions before we have another situation on our hands.”

“Eight years a loner has made you horny as hell, hasn’t it?”

“What’s your excuse?” he demanded,  throwing a towel at him.

“A fertile imagination and one hell of a piece of eye candy to fuel it,” he replied with a leer. “Seriously, even if you are mine, you are still unfairly man-pretty.”

“Should I stop working out just to make you feel better?”

“Fuck no! I want all the bitches to be jealous that I got a man as pretty as you,” he insisted. “What are the chances of you getting ‘caught’ without a shirt on by the paparazzi?”

“Slim to non-existent.” He grabbed a shirt and slacks from the armoire and threw them at the idiot he loved.

“Lame. How will people know just how hot my man is if you don’t show some skin?” He was silent as they dressed, as they made their way through the palace, and, presumably, as he thought; there didn’t seem to be a moment Stiles was conscious that he didn’t have a stream of ideas coursing through his brain. This supposition was confirmed when he suddenly shouted, “Beach vacation! Swim-shorts automatically equals abs. It’s perfect!”

He didn’t reply immediately, if only because he was enjoying the idea of them on a secluded beach holiday together. “Stiles, we live on the Mediterranean. We are where vacations happen.”

“You are sucking the fun out of my plans.” He glared and grumbled. “You’re a fun-sucker.”

Derek leaned in close, lips brushing the man’s ear as he whispered, “That’s not all I suck.”

Smirking, he walked through the door to the dining room, leaving Stiles to work the lust off his face and make himself presentable for the royal family.

In the sixth months since they had met, Stiles had spent more time at the dinner table than anyone outside their immediate family. None of the suitors either of his sisters brought home managed to last more than a single meal, so terrifying was the front his parents put up. Perhaps it had been the time spent with Derek beforehand or, as Stiles had said, he simply didn't care about titles, but he was the first person to not only survive to sit a second meal with the entire family but also to win over every Hale. Derek watched him from across the table as he weathered the brief storm of innuendo that met their arrival, as he debated with Laura, and threw all of Cora's sass back at her without pause.

When Wesley performed his nightly ritual of rising, patting his stomach, and moving toward the chess board, Stiles followed suit with the rest of the family in tow. Three nights a week since January, that was how often he had been coming to the house, dining with some portion of the family, playing chess against the King when he was in the country. It was routine by now. Laura leaning on his shoulder, studying his methods to better learn strategy didn't surprise him. Cora shouting out complaints about the state of the environment didn't break his concentration. His parents alternating between nauseating affection and bitter debates didn't have him fleeing the room.

All of this came as a jaw-dropping shock to the man's father, who stood, transfixed, in the doorway, enormous eyes scanning the scene and disbelief clear on his face.

“Stiles?”

He looked up from the game, offering a casual wave. “Hey, Pops.”

Talia rose and moved to greet their guest, her spine straight and head high, her face impassive. She was in monarch mode. “Chief Stilinski,” she said. “How good of you to come.”

“Noah, please, Your Majesty,” he replied, voice tight and sounding completely unlike the man Derek had met outside the scene of his crash.

“Such formality is completely unnecessary.” She smiled and gestured him farther into the room. “Stiles is practically family.”

Almost on cue, the young man was shouting. “Damn, didn’t see that move coming, you sneaky, old bastard!”

Their parents shouted as one: “Language, Stiles!” as Laura cuffed his ear, and Noah Stilinski’s disbelief shifted into amazement, perhaps that his son truly was like family or that the royals were no different from himself when trying to manage his hyperactive son.

“What brings you here?” Talia asked.

“Yeah, you bring me clothes?” Stiles asked, loping across the room. “They tell me I’m stuck here until Gerard is caught.”

Everyone stopped what they were doing, freezing as if in a tableau. Derek noticed a kind of uncomfortable tightening of their faces as Stilinski’s mouth turned down in an unmistakably confused and contrary frown. “Well, then you can come on home, son. Gerard was caught yesterday before you were found. Those two fancy cops we pay to stand around at the Eastern Gate finally served a purpose other than getting their picture taken.”

Laura groaned.

“You knew?” Stiles demanded.

“Of course we knew,” she huffed. “We were hoping to avoid telling you for at least another day.”

“But why?”

Derek wished he could say he was as perplexed by their motives. “You played us."

"Wait, they played us?" Stiles questioned. "Since when?”

“Since November, idiot,” she scoffed as if it were obvious.

He and Stiles stared at one another, faces red with delayed realization and no small amount of embarrassment. They were saved having to find any sort of appropriate reply when Noah cleared his throat.

“This also came for Stiles,” he said, pulling an envelope from his pocket. “Looks like orders.”

“What? Already?” Stiles griped, snatching the letter from his father. He read, face pulling down and eyes darting to Derek. “They’re sending me to Germany. Part of the transition into the Eurozone, sharing our methods and learning the EU way.”

“For how long?” Derek demanded, stealing the paper away and scanning the contents. “Indefinitely.” He glared at his mother. “This was Deucalion, wasn’t it? You let him pick which officers were going.”

“It’s an honor to represent Faron--” she began.

“Make him send someone else.”

The woman stood taller, somehow towering over her son despite being several centimeters shorter. “I will not,” she said, voice hard. “To undermine my commander’s authority, to use my power to further my aims and whims, those are the actions of a despot. Those are the actions that give Monroe’s ilk ammunition against us. Stiles will go where he is ordered because that is what he swore to do. He is an Airman and citizen of Faron first, your boyfriend second.” Her adamance dissipated instantly as she said the final words, replaced instead by something bordering on horror as she looked to the man beside her.

“I kind of figured something was going on,” Stilinski admitted. “Part of why I came by, actually.”

“Well, I’ll just let you get on with threatening my son’s life, then,” Talia said, stepping away. “Please join us once you’ve finished. Derek, to the anteroom, if you please.”

While he was still furious that Stiles was being sent some fourteen-hundred kilometers away for no one knew how long, the only thing Derek could really think about was the man following him. With every step toward the adjoining room, he felt like he was shutting the door on his relationship with Stiles. The man’s father was sure to disapprove of his son getting caught up in their way of life; it had already nearly killed him. No sane man would permit his child to remain close to Derek.

“Before you say anything,” Stilinski said, “I want you to know you don’t have to worry about that Maserati.”

He paled at the mention of his stupidity. “What?”

“I’ve got three different witnesses plus texts documenting the owner’s intent to leave the keys in the car to make it disappear. He couldn’t maintain the payments. That makes it fraud, and that’s illegal.”

“I’m pretty sure stealing a car is illegal, too,” Derek replied, voice minuscule.

“Well, _Miguel_ , I think you and I need to have a little chat about larceny and destruction of property,” the man said, putting a strong hand on his shoulder and squeezing a bit too hard.

“No, sir. We're good.”

“I thought that crash might have knocked some sense into you,” he commented. “But let’s make sure you keep your joyriding on the track where it belongs, or I might not be willing to look the other way a second time.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Derek answered immediately.

“Now, about Stiles,” the man’s voice dropped at the name, feeling like a fist to the gut. “That boy is my only child. If you break his heart, I will drag you out into that preserve your family loves so much and scatter your pieces so far and wide that no one will find so much as a finger. Do you understand me?”

There was no doubting the man’s sincerity. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He slapped Derek hard on the back and left him standing alone in the anteroom. It took him nearly five minutes to force his heartbeat to slow and hands to stop shaking. Stilinski, much like his son, did not display his ferocity or temper, but they were there, ready to claw their way to the surface should someone they love be threatened. It was terrifying but also heartening to think that loyalty might one day protect him.

With one last calming breath, he left the relative safety of the empty room and joined his family. Stilinski had been drawn into a discussion with Cora; from what he could hear, they were talking of illegal poaching on the preserve. Laura and Talia were back at the old tax overhaul debate. Stiles and Wesley were starting another game of chess; judging by the number of pieces he had to replace and the look on his face, his father had lost another game. Derek moved to hide the brandy before he could try cheating again.

As he crossed the room, Stiles’s eyes fell on him. The man smiled. His chest warmed and heart swelled at the sight. Not just of him, but of everyone; his family and Stiles’s together as if it had always been that way. This, he realized possibly for the first time in his life, was what happiness felt like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be sure to check out [Imagine Sterek](http://imagine-sterek.tumblr.com) for all the wonderful prompts that inspired this story. I'll be going nuts reblogging all the Prince!Derek posts on my own [Tumblr](http://iamtarasoleil.tumblr.com).
> 
> Stiles's personalized ringtone for Derek: [Second try at sharing this thing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WMjU7EVsZT0).
> 
> And last one for the playlist:  
> Leonard Cohen - [Dance Me to the End of Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJ1P3LjkE28)

**Author's Note:**

> Here is where I admit that I have NEVER written in the Teen Wolf fandom before. So PLEASE let me know how I'm doing.


End file.
